• A ROMANCE 

I OF  THE 

• • • wrr 


l/aslpt 


WHEEL 


BY 


Mrrvel  Kryve 


VASHTl,  OLD  AND  NEW 

OR 

THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE. 

A ROMANCE  OF  THE  WHEEL. 

—A  Dramatic  Idyl— 


BY 

MARVEL  KAYVE 


'^Behind  the  clouds  the  starlight  lurks, 
Through  showers  the  sunbeams  fall; 
For  God,  who  loveth  all  his  works, 

Has  left  his  hope  with  all.”— Whittier. 


NEW  YORK  AND  CHICAGO 

Authors’  Publishing  House 

1896 


Copyright,  1896,  by  S.  S.  Stanger. 
All  rights  reserved. 


TO  HIM  WITH  THE  BIG  HEABT 

And  the  royal  nature,  whose  right  hand  knoweth  not  the  do- 
ing  of  his  left;  who  in  this  cold  print  shall  he  nameless,  even 
as  his  deeds  are  elsewise  recorded;  on  whom  falls  a gen^ 
tie  rain  of  blessing,  coming  from  the  sweet  toilers  whom  he 
hath  befriended;  with  whom  he  hath  broken  the  bread  of  a 
sympathy  woman-like,  which  is  divine-like — who  are  by  hun- 
dreds and  by  thousands  in  this  one  city  by  the  lake;  one  who 
hath  ever  had  a tender  heart  and  an  open  hand  for  the  un- 
fortunate, for  the  needy,  or  the  aspiring  ones,  who  to  him 
are  a sisterhood  or  a brotherhood  and  of  a common  family; 
who  hath  a word  of  cheer  for  all  who  ask — and  rightly~for 
honest  and  independent  bread,  or  a modicum  of  the  bounty 
of  a universal  Father  who  was  not  in  fault,  as  many  of  us 
seem  to  say,  when  He  made  no  reserve  of  good  for  any  elect 
of  sex.  With  these  other  lowly  ones  of  earth  do  I say,  God 
bless  him,  and  give  us  a thousand-fold  increase  of  his  kind. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2017  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign  Aiternates 


https://archive.org/details/vashtioldneworetOOkayv 


PAGE 


A Conversation. 
Introduction. 

The  Eomance. 

Asleep 

The  Scroll — 

The  King  and  Feasters 
Vashti  Made  a Feast. 
The  King’s  Command. 
The  Queen’s  Eefusal. 
The  King  Wrathful, 
Vashti  Uncrowned. 
Masculine  Terror. 
Woman’s  Contempt. 
Man’s  Assurance 
A King’s  Repentance. 
The  King  Consoled. 
The  Vashtis  Arise. 

The  Vashtis  Awheel 

The  Smaller  Scroll 

Jacob  and  Rachel. 

Meaning  of  the  Scrolls 

The  Message, 

Life  a Journey 

Life’s  Highway 

Mother  and  Babe 

A Horoscope 

The  Word  Creative 


PAGE. 


Life  is  Purpose 17 

Old  Folks’  Song 19 

The  Dying  Son 20 

Home  Folks’  Song 22 

Life  in  Death 23 

Boyesen  on  Love 24 

Lover’s  Song 25 

Accepted  (Song) 26 

Birch  Arnold’s  Philosophy. . . 29 

The  Tragedy  of  Living 30 

The  Underworld  of  Life 31 

The  Woman  Philosopher 31 

Heroic  Girlhood 33 

Sentimental  Injustice 35 

Woman’s  Heroism 36 

Woman  in  the  Race 37 

Vashti,  Rachel,  Edith 38 

The  Marriage  Song 39 

The  Woman  Teacher 41 

Prentice  Mulford’s  Thought.  41 

Nature  is  Life  Perennial 41 

Youth  is  Beauty,  Life 42 

Choose  not  Black 43 

Dress  is  an  Expression 44 

Suit  Dress  to  Present  Need. . 46 

What  of  Fashion? 46 

Woman’s  Right  to  Choose...  47 


BY 

1 

8 

9 

10 

11 

12 

12 

13 

14 

16 


Must  be  not  Man’s  Dress 48 

Petticoats  or  Leggings 49 

A Law  to  Herself 50 

A Calamity  to  Avert 51 

By  our  Beard 52 

Woman  Beardless 52 

Tag  the  Masculine 53 

The  Sex  Intrinsic 54 

A Comedy 55 

Queen  Fashion 56 

“Dear  Lady  Crinoline” 57 

Evolution  of  the  Wheel e58 

Evolution  of  the  Dress 59 

Full  Dress 60 

Father  Antics 61 

The  Maiden  Messenger  61,  62,  114 
Better  than  Fashion’s  Smile.  62 

The  Beach  and  Bathers 63 

The  Magic  Line 63 

A Strange  Malady 64 

Consistency  Unjeweled, 64 

Queen  Fashion  Converted 67 

A Masculine  Prude 68 

And  Woman  Suffers 69 

Woman  Emerges 70 

The  Sphere  of  Love 71 

The  Comedy  is  Ended 71 

Status  of  Protestors 72 

Edith  Assailed 73 

Edith’s  Champion,  Jacob 74 

Free  Sailing  Ahead 76 

Beautiful  Vashti 77 

An  Irate  Lover 78 

A Woman  for  the  Occasion..  78 
Edith's  Sympatlietic  Sacri- 
fice  79 

Tin*  Sabbath  Class 79 

Th(*  Lord’s  Bray(‘r 80 

.lac.ohand  th(‘  Boys 81 

'Uie  Spirit  of  Ilumanemiss. . . 82 


Shakespeare’s  Word  for  Mercy  84 

The  Street  Accident 85 

There  are  Brutes  and  Brutes.  86 

The  Boys’  Mistake 87 

Brave,  not  Wanton 88 

The  Tragedy 89 

Grave,  Where  is  Thy  Victory  90 

The  Boys  Bepentant 91 

“Killin’s  Killin’ ” 92 

The  Loyals 93 

The  Pledge 94 

Penalty  Fits  the  Crime 95 

The  Boys  Forgiven 96 

“Gone  Forever’’ 97 

“I’m  Nobody’s  Darling” 98 

Awake 98 

What  are  Dreams? 99 

“O  Vashti  Fair!” 99 

A Strange  Experience 100 

Found 101 

Happiness 102 

Not  Found 103 

The  Paradox  of  Life 104 

A Lost  Clue 105 

Is  Life  a Dream? 106 

Found  at  Last 107 

Are  Called  “Lovers” 108 

The  Biddle 109 

Patiently  Solving 110 

The  Puzzle  Deepens Ill 

Solved — The  Best  is  Love 112 

Progress  by  Self-Effort 112 

All  is  Beal 113 

Love  and  Hope  Beconciled. . .113 
Fellowship  of  Men  with 

Women 114 

Larg(‘r  Life,  the  Ending 114 

L’  Envoi  114 

Aftermath. 

A Conversation. 


A CONVERSATION. 


Said  his  friend:  “When  Jacob  wrought  fourteen  long  years 
for  one  he  loved,  it  was  for  Eachel.  Do  you  think  he  would 
have  waited  so  long  for  Yashti?” 

“One  may  not  say,”  answered  the  book-maker,  “for  men 
have  not  all  the  same  liking;  but  this  we  do  know:  of  all  the 
characters  or  types  of  womanhood  in  history,  none  are  more 
beautiful  than  is  Yashti.  Eemember  that  King  Ahasuerus 
repented  him  very  speedily  of  his  drunken  folly;  and  only  the 
laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians  (that  even  a king  could  not 
alter)  forbade  him  calling  back  to  his  arms  one  of  whom  he 
knew  he  was  not  worthy— one  whose  self-respect  was  stronger 
than  the  command  of  a king. — No,  there  was  no  fault  in  the 
Yashti  of  history,  unless  it  were  a fault  to  be  too  advanced  for 
the  masculinity  (and  it  may  be  for  the  femininity)  of  her  day.” 

“Fourteen  years— even  seven— is  a long  time  to  wait  for  a 
woman!” 

“True,  man  is  not  the  most  patient  of  animals;  but  four- 
teen years  in  Jacob’s  time  was  really  no  longer  than  a few 
months  are  now.” 


“Perhaps  you  are  right,”  said  his  friend,  resignedly; 
“and  it  may  be  that  if  the  Jacobs  of  the  coming  time  do  not 
rise  a little  above  the  level  of  the  Ahasueruses  and  the 
Memucans  of  old,  the  Yashtis  of  the  future  will  make  them 
wait,  however  unwillingly,  even  longer  than  Jacob  waited  for 
Rachel!”  Then  he  added,  reflectively,  “The  Ahasueruses  of 
old  seem  to  have  assumed  the  right  to  fix  the  standard  of 
feminine  conduct,  and  yet  to  have  placed  it  lower  than 
woman  herself  would  choose  to  have  it!” 

”Man’s  standard  for  woman  was  certainly  lower  than  the 
standard  of  the  Yashtis,”  responded  the  book-maker,  “and 
who  will  say  it  is  not  true  even  in  our  own  day?” 

“Well,  whether  we  will  or  no,  a change  is  in  the  air. 
We  may  as  well  welcome  the  new  order,”  continued  his 
friend,  xJiilosophically;  “and  the  reign  of  one  who  has  begun 
to  have  her  own  way.” 

“And  the  same  old,  sweet  way,  after  all,”  added  the 
book-maker. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Soul  pictures  are  so  real,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  inter- 
pret them  by  any  other  than  soul  language;  and  it  was  not  the 
words,  but  tlie  soul,  which  they  so  graphically  and  tenderly 
interpreted,  that  brought  the  glow  of  appreciative  response, 
when  following,  at  first  with  interest  and  at  last  with  unwonted 
eagerness,  this  story  in  verse:  Yashti,  Old  and  New;  which 
is  the  story  of  the  ‘‘new  woman,”  who  is  indeed  no  other  than 
the  true  woman  of  all  the  centuries. 

“Original  and  unique”  was  my  comment  in  the  delight- 
ful perusal  of  this  story  of  beautiful  Yashti.  Even  the  name  of 
the  author  had  a flavor  of  originality.  Curiosity  mingled  with 
interest,  as  I began  the  reading,  but  ere  half  a dozen  pages  had 
been  passed,  I found  myself  too  delightfully  carried  on  to  be 
curious,  and  before  long  1 had  forgotten  to  be  critical,  and  set- 
tled down  with  a feeling  of  satisfied  anticipation.  While  I 
read,  and  after,  these  pictures  flashed  successively  upon  my 
mind,  as  if  in 


A WAKING  VISION. 

Then  it  was  that  I lay  me  down  upon  my  couch  to  meditatively 
re-en joy  in  the  gathering  twilight,  and  suddenly  flashed  before 
me  in  panoramic  forms  of  soul  pictures,  the  characters  and 
scenes  introduced  by  the  ‘‘book-maker,”  with  all  their  broad 
and  timely  lessons;  and  I lay  entranced,  taught  of  Truth. 

There  came  in  my  vision,  in  letters  of  vivid  light,  the 
simple  words,  “New  Womanhood,”  and,  seeming  to  accompany 
them,  the  words,  “Transformed  through  the  renewing  of  the 
mind.”  As  the  increasing  consciousness  of  all  the  fulness  of 
those  meanful  words  possessed  me,  I seemed  to  see  them  indeed 
typified  in  the  Yashti  of  the  poet’s  dream— Yashti,  old  and  new! 

First,  Yashti,  the  Queen— a “Queen  of  queens.”  Have  you 
seen  her?  How  shall  I describe  such  heavenly  beauty?  I seem 
to  see  her  when  the  King’s  demand  has  been  made  known 
to  her.  It  is  in  a royally-fitted  apartment.  Standing  before 
her  is  one  of  her  maidens,  in  attendance;  she  bows  before  the 
Queen,  and  awaits  her  pleasure  before  she  speaks.  The  Queen, 
with  gracious,  queenly  gesture,  commands  the  expected  message, 
smilingly— and  such  a smile,  it  adds  a charm  inexpressible  to 
her  face  so  marvelously  beautiful,  and  reveals  her  small,  white 
teeth,  each  a dainty  pearl,  lint  suddenly  a look  of  incredulous 
sur[)rise,  iningl(‘d  with  injured  dignity,  chases  the  smile  away. 
She  risers,  as  it  were,  to  a loftier  queenliness,  and  her  very  face 
b(!sj)ejiks  a (pKicnly  soul.  Her  look  is  a mingling  of  surprise, 
injured  wonianliood  and  linn  rc'volt.  An  indescribable  quiet 
seems  to  clot  In*  the  wli()l(‘  form  of  t-lu^  C^iieen,  as  she  stands  there 
jjure,  resoliit and  commanding. 

I not(i  more  eIos(‘Iy  now  lu'r  beauty.  Her  low,  broad 
brow  attracts  me,  tlnm  Inn*  com])l(‘xion,  wadi  matching  thedark, 


fathomless  eyes,  well  shaded  by  long,  curling  lashes,  dark  as  her 
beautifully  penciled  eyebrows  and  her  hair  of  midnight. 

I had  had  a glimpse  of  her  when  her  hair  was  falling  in 
luxuriant  half-formed  ringlets  round  her  perfectly  moulded 
form,  so  matchless  in  its  every  curve  and  outline  of  beauty;  but 
now  it  is  wound  many  times  in  braid  about  her  shapely  head, 
beyond  the  modern  fashion’s  ken. 

Ever  upon  its  soft,  satin-like  beauty  falls  a shadow  from 
a crown.  This  crown  is  all  resplendent  with  rare  gems,  but  its 
brightest  lustre  is  more  than  gem-like;  it  is  divine,  and  seems, 
and  surely  is,  a very  part  of  her  who  wears  the  crown. 

Her  mouth  is  simply  luscious  in  its  beauty,  and  over  the 
whole  face,  from  brow  to  moulded  chin,  a purity  and  a dignity 
well  match  the  purity  and  luminous  truth  in  the  wondrous 
soul-lit  eyes. 

Yashti  is  tall,  but  her  height  seems  in  necessary  propor- 
tion to  her  magnificent  and  perfect  beauty. 

This  is  Yashti,  glorious  in  her  splendid  birthright  of 
female  loveliness.  This  is  Yashti,  standing  there  in  that 
supreme  moment  of  her  life,  never  more  queenly  than  nowin  her 
humiliation,  never  more  beautiful  than  in  this  the  involuntary 
protest  of  her  transcendent  womanhood.  Queen  indeed  is  she 
and  by  inheritance  divine,  like  the  laws  of  her  queendom  of 
Media  and  Persia,  not  to  be  unmade  of  her  true  crown,  by  men 
and  King  combined.  This  is  Yashti,  one  of  the  “King’s 
daughters.” 

This  is  Yashti  as  she  stood  before  me,  newly  recognized 
and  honored  in  this  nineteenth  century;  fit  type  of  every- 
century  womanhood,  a sister  twin  of  Mary,  mother  of  the  Christ. 
She  embodies  history  of  the  highest  womanhood  of  old,  and 


prophecy  of  the  best  to  come;  a type  that  finds  its  natural  God- 
given  place  in  millennial  days  now  dawning.  This  is  Vashti, 
old  yet  ever  new. 

Now,  as  in  the  dreamer’s  Vision,  the  picture  changes,  and 
I see  the  King.  It  were  fitting  that  he  were  a king  as  Vashti 
was  a queen,  or  by  inheritance  of  soul.  Contrast,  not  com- 
parison or  semblance,  is  the  picture  flashed  upon  my  mind. 
Sensual  is  his  look,  and  he  is  one  who  must  be  sensually  blinded, 
as  he  feasts  with  fellows  of  his  ilk— all  on  a common  plane 
and  low. 

He  is  short  and  thick-set— not  so  tall  as  Vashti.  Nor  is 
his  hair  so  dark  as  Vashti’s.  A beard  he  has  that  covers  well 
his  face,  leaving  little  else  than  heavy  eyebrows,  and  his  blear- 
ing, blinking  eye,  of  a soul  besotted  in  the  revelry  of  wine. 

On  his  throne  he  sits,  and  gathered  at  the  festive  board  are 
the  men  of  rule  and  war.  On  the  King  are  long  garments,  rich 
in  texture,  the  habiliments  of  royalty;  but  worn  as  is  the  toggery 
of  clowns.  Of  the  feasters,  some  are  robed  in  loose  and  flowing 
garments,  robes  of  state,  and  others  in  the  armor  of  the  warrior. 

And  ill-fitting  was  the  crown  of  this  a pseudo-king, 
whose  word  was  law,  and  en  ough  to  blast  the  name  and  hope  of 
highest  purity  and  loveliness  itself.  In  my  vision  of  this  ruler, 
the  crown  will  not  rest  quietly  in  its  wonted  place,  but  has  a 
bent  for  slipping  fore  and  aft  and  sideways ; so  the  king  has  need 
to  make  adjustment  often,  which  he  does  without  a show  of 
kingliness  I 

Mingled  with  the  light  and  glare  of  this  old  feasting 
chamber,  was  a darkness  pi'culiar,  and  invisible  but  to  psychic 
vision.  It  is  daylight,  but  an  inky  blackness  of  debauchery  is 
there,  as  if  an  atmosphere  within  an  atmosphere,  It  was  as  if 


a cloudiness  of  darkness,  betokening  the  soul’s  condition. 

Within  this  darkness  is  a flash  of  light  supernal  and  it 
writes  a message;  but  all  unheeded  is  the  light  and  message,  aye, 
and  all  the  darkness  visible— unheeded  by  King  and  feasters.  A 
heavenly  warning  is  this  message,  one  of  warning  and  restraint; 
it  is  as  if  an  inward  and  an  outward  message.  Repentance 
was  the  call  of  this  appearance  and  its  warning. 

So,  seeing  not  the  word,  there  was  no  heeding— no 
restraint,  and  to  the  Queen  was  sent  the  fateful  message  that 
was  yet  to  make  a King  repent— too  late! 

Now  I see  the  dreamer;  he  is  asleep,  and  he  lies  upon  a 
luxurious  couch,  in  the  abandon  of  complete  repose.  It  is  a 
large  upper  room  overlooking  a most  beautiful  landscape. 
Through  the  large  open  windows  are  blowing  soft  breezes  with 
joyous  whisperings  of  happiness,  lost  at  times  in  the  low 
cadences  of  sad  suggestion.  The  sleeper  is  dreaming,  and  the 
tenor  of  his  dream-thoughts  is  reflected  on  his  face  half-hidden 
in  a cloudiness  of  aura,  as  if  an  inspirational  radiance  were 
visible— to  psychic  sight.  The  face  has  now  an  animated 
expression,  with  a bright  smile  playing  about  the  features,  and 
anon  a shadow  flitting  across  it,  as  if  a sadness  were  in 
the  heart. 

I notice  that  there  are  two  of  him;  the  one  upon  the  couch 
being  a shadow-like  counterpart  of  a real  dreamer  above  the 
sleeping  form. 

There  has  come  suddenly  into  the  room  a troop  of 
wheelers,  ‘‘nor  men  nor  boys,  but  maidens  all:”  and  their  move- 
ments are  with  “rare  ease  and  grace,  marvelous  to  behold.” 
These  maidens  carry  a huge  Scroll  which,  the  while  they  are 
unrolling  it,  the  dreamer  seems  to  read, 


One  of  these  is  a leader,  and  she  is  like  the  Yashti  I saw, 
who  was  queen,  but  this  maiden  is  younger  and,  as  it  were,  a 
modern  woman.  She  has  in  her  immediate  following  one  of 
fairer  complexion  but  not  more  beautiful.  Others  are  grouped 
near  by,  and  all  are  radiantly  interested.  Some  are  fair,  with 
golden  hair;  some  are  darker  in  complexion,  with  a charm  their 
own.  They  are  very  graceful  in  their  grouping,  and  each  one 
stands  near  a wheel  that  itself  seems  a life-like  part  of  the 
strikingly  beautiful  scene. 

When  the  reading  is  ended  I see  that  the  dreamer  has  a 
thoughtful  look  upon  his  face.  The  leader  questions  the 
dreamer,  and  all  the  girls  seem  greatly  pleased  at  the  an- 
swering. 

Then  they  “backward  turned,  and  wheeling,  all  in  order, 
rolled  up  the  Scroll;”  but  they  leave  it  behind  them,  and  “tied 
around  with  ribbons,  white  and  blue,  and  lying,  now  unguarded 
upon  a bank  of  flowers.” 

While  yet  they  tarried,  there  fell  upon  my  ear  that  sad 
Refrain  of  Life  that  the  dreamer  heard  so  often  in  the  after 
Vision.  When  I wondered  from  whence  it  came,  I saw  that 
across  the  widespread  landscape,  with  its  beauty  of  hill  and  dale 
and  stream  and  forest,  a Highway  and  a City  came  in  view. 
From  the  dreamer,  to  this  City  and  along  the  Highway,  was  a 
dark  and  cloudy  atmosplieric  current  (visible  only  to  soul-seeing); 
and  upon  tliis  current,  was  borne  the  wail  of  burdened,  breaking 
hearts  tliat  liad  yet  to  learn  to  And  and  claim  and  to  manifest 
the  power  of  Eternal  Cood. 

In  tlic  thought  of  tliis  strange  scene,  I saw  that  the 
dreaiiHT  had  now  awakcuied. 

Now  tlie  s(‘(,*ties  crowd  and  grow  upon  me,  and  to  portray 


them  in  words  is  to  write  another  book.  The  dreamer  has 
again  been  “soothed  to  slumber”  by  “voices  musical,”  and  I see 
Jacob  of  old  standing  in  a held.  Rachel  is  near  him,  and  not  far 
off  is  Leah.  Jacob  is  not  tall;  he  is  a bearded  man,  with  dark 
eyebrows,  and  he  holds  in  his  hands  a shepherd’s  staff.  Rachel 
has  almond-shaped  eyes,  a beautiful  mouth,  and  a forehead  that 
reminds  one  of  the  Madonna.  Her  eyes  are  brilliant  with  truth 
and  love;  yet  she  is  tender-eyed  and  childlike,  as  with  a true  sim- 
plicity-more than  Leah,  though  both  are  beautiful.  The 
mouth  of  Leah  shows  pride,  and  there  is  not  the  sweetness  in 
her  face  that  is  in  that  of  Rachel. 

One  now  appears  who  must  be  Laban;  and  most  peculiar 
looking  is  this  old  fellow.  He  is  very  dark,  and  he  has  an 
oriental  garb,  but  not  like  anything  I have  seen  before,  even  in 
pictures.  Laban  speaks  to  Rachel  in  commanding  tone,  and 
the  girl  flushes  and  walks  away.  Leah  lingers,  but  Jacob’s  eyes 
are  with  Rachel.  He  will  have  no  say  with  Leah,  but  walks 
away  to  where  are  standing  cattle  grazing.  The  scene  closes 
with  Laban  talking  to  Leah. 

The  waking  visions  cease  not;  scene  upon  scene  is 
pictured,  as  by  magic,  before  my  receptive  soul.  With  the 
distinctness  of  life,  the  pictures  come  and  fade.  I see  the  maiden 
beautiful— leader  of  the  girls,  and  often.  Soon  I learn  to 
recognize  in  her  the  Yashti  of  our  day.  Like  her  of  old  whose 
name  she  bears,  she  is  a queen  of  queens.  She  is  regal  because 
of  her  inborn  fitness,  and  the  choice  of  those  who  have  crowned 
her  in  their  hearts.  Her  outward  grace,  beauty,  dignity,  inde- 
pendence and  self-command  are  but  a necessary  expression  of  a 
rounded  royal  nature.  No  fear  of  accident  or  of  illness  does  she 
knowj  for  has  she  not  recognized  the  Source  of  Life,  and  learned 


to  control  the  forces  and  elements  that  were  to  be  her  servants? 
A sweet,  contrasting  simplicity  is  noticeable  in  all  she  says  or 
does,  and  it  makes  her  beloved  by  all.  I claimed  her  forthwith 
as  my  own  heart-friend. 

Nor  is  this  our  Yashti  too  good  for  our  dawning 
century,  I exclaimed;  and  I questioned:  ‘‘Where  is  he  her  true 
soul-mate,  and  worthy  of  the  sacred  treasure  of  her  love— which 
with  woman  is  ever  one  with  life.” 

Then  clearly  came  to  me  the  words  of  Yashti  when  the 
reading  of  the  Scroll  was  ended.  Said  Yashti:  “Tell  us,  dost 
thou  understand  the  meaning  of  the  writing?”  The  dreamer 
said:  “Methinks  the  meaning  is  so  plain  that  he  who  runs  may 
read.  If  one  may  be  like  Yashti  of  so  long  ago,  well  fitted  she 
to  be  of  those  that  are  to  come  in  years  unborn.  And  Jacob, 
though  he  lived  longer  ago  than  Yashti,  in  his  loyalty,  his  faith- 
fulness, and  manliness,  a worthy  type  is  he  of  centuries  hence. — 
Read  I aright?”  And  these  were  Yashti’s  words  in  answer: 
“Thou  hast  a heart  that  well  deserves  a woman’s  love,  else  thou 
hadst  not  interpreted  so  well  the  Scroll.”  So  when  I saw  the 
dreamer  and  that  he  was  one  who  well  and  worthily  could  inter- 
pret woman  true,  or  old  or  new, — from  somewhere  echoed 
Yashti’s  words:  “77iow  hast  a heart  that  well  deserves  a woman's 
love,"  and  I claimed  him  Yashti's  Jacob. 

Rut  the  Jacob  who  worthily  deserves  the  love  of  Yashti 
must  needs  not  only  be  true  as  was  Jacob,  who  served  so  long  for 
Ilachel,  but  he  must  liave  in  him  the  best  of  the  coming 
e(!nturi(*s.  I'or  man,  as  w(‘ll  as  woman,  will  be  demanded  a 
divinely  royal  nature.  Must  th(‘  Vashtis  be  strong,  pure  and 
true?  So  must  the  .Jacobs.  When  it  shall  come  that  man  and 
woman  instinctively  shall  express  their  (Jod-inherited  natures, 


then  will  the  Jacobs  and  the  Yashtis  first  meet  on  their  native 
plane— that  of  soul,  and  know  each  other  beyond  questioning 
and  live  millennial  lives. 


Lo,  a vision^  clear  and  vivid, 

came  and  chased  all  else  away, 

Now  I saw  the  lovely  Vashti 
stand  before  her  irate  lover, 

saw  her  pained  surprise  and  wonder, 
as  she  paused  to  reconsider. 

Then  I saw  her  form  grow  stately, 
and  I saw  her  eyes  flash  queenly, 
as  she  drew  off  from  her  finger 
a love-toTcen  he  had  given, 

when  they  thought  their  souls 

were  wedded. 

Quick  the  scene  now  changed  before  me. 

Once  again  I saw  fair  Vashti 
— at  her  side  another  lover. 

He  it  was  her  true  soul-lover, 
and  I noted  without  wonder, 

that  her  constant,  worthy  lover 
was  the  dreamer,  was  a seer. 

Aye,  indeed,  a true  soul-prophet, 
though  so  oft  he  had  been  faulty 

in  his  lack  of  trust  and  knowledge 
of  the  visions  in  his  dreams. 

Knowing  not  they  were  God's  message 
writ  indeed  by  God's  own  finger, 
on  the  tables  of  his  heart 

and  reflected  for  his  seeing, 

for  his  seeing  and  his  guidance 

as  appeared  in  dream-like  Vision, 


As  they  stood,  the  God-wed  lovers, 
stood  apart  and  plain  before  me. 

In  a pure  and  radiant  vision 
folded  in  a radiant  glory, 

slowly  did  a change  come  o'er  them 
and  they  seemed  but  one,  yet  two, 
as  they  faded  from  my  view. 

One  m ore  vision  in  the  darkness 
clearly  saw  I as  't  was  given: 

Vashti  of  the  Bible  story 

stood  a very  queen  before  me 
followed  by  a line  of  women, 
till  our  Jacob's  Vashti  came. 

Some  were  young  and  full  of  beauty, 
as  to  outward  form  and  feature, 

some  were  worn  with  toil  and  sorrow, 
but  I noted  that  above  them 

and  beyond  them,  stood  their  true  selves, 
stood  the  second  self  of  each  one, 
and  they  all  were  truly  royal, 
and  in  beauty  passing  fair. 
All  the  centuries'  best  and  purest 
were  before  me,  in  my  vision, 

and  above  each  one  a name  flashed 
— it  was  ever,  always,  Vashti, 
ever  differmg,  yet  the  same. 

Some  were  queens,  by  earthly  naming, 
some  were  toilers  for  their  bread, 

— all  were  Vashtis! 

While  1 jumdered  well  tJw  vision, 
came  a live  of  men  before  me, 

and  the  Jacobs  of  the  coitaries 
as  the  l^ashtis  pictured  were. 


Suddenly  I surely  noted 

Vashti  Queen,  and  queenly  Vashti, 
and  the  others  all  between, 

slow  began  to  near  each  other, 

by  a sure  and  inward  drawing, 

till,  at  last,  they  met  and  blended, 

Blended  fully  in  each  other 

and  enfolded  in  that  blending 
all  the  Vashtis  in  the  line. 

So  the  Jacobs  of  the  centuries 

blended  in  one  radiant  manhood 
— the  true  manhood  of  our  day. 

One  brief  moment  there  before  me 
stood  the  dreamer,  nor  alone; 

close  beside  him  was  his  Vashti 

— Vashti  strong  and  free  and  love-crowned, 
stood  they  there  a moment  only 
and  were  gone. 

Long  the  visions,  brief  in  passing, 
scarce  the  twilight  hour  had  fled, 
thrilled,  uplifted,  by  the  lessons 
taught  by  seeing,  soft  I said: 

was  right,  was  Bealf,  rare  poet, 
when  he  wrote  with  vision  Iceen: 

^ Never  poem  has  been  written 
but  the  metre  was  outmastered 
by  the  meaning,^  ” 


Isabel  F.  Jones. 


THE  ROMANCE. 


I slept 

— yet  seemed  I 
not  asleep;  for  what  I saw 
was  real, 

even  as  Life  is  real. 

It  was  a 
Scroll 

—a  long,  long  Scroll; 
Before  my  very  eyes 
was  it  unrolled; 

On  the  unrolling  thereof 
did  I read 
the  writing  thereon 
and  in 
these  words: 


[History  rejjeciTs  itself; 

as  it  was  in  the  beginning 

so  it  shall  be  even  unto  the  close 

of  the  Nineteenth  Century.) 


A Nineteenth  Centui'y  King. 

Now  it  came  to  pass 

in  the  clays  of  Ahasuerus^  the  Kmg, 

That  he  made  a Feast 

unto  all  his  princes  and  his  servants; 

The  poicer  of  Persia  and  Media, 

the  nobles  and  the  princes  of  the  provinces 
being  before  him; 

When  he  showed  the  riches 

of  his  glorious  Kingdom 
and  the  honor  of 

his  excellent  Majesty; 

And  the  drinking 

was  according  to  law, 

none  did  compel; 

For  so  the  King  had  appointed 
to  all  his  officei^s 
That  they  should  do 

according  to  every  man 
his  own  pleasure. 


A Nineteenth  Century  Incident. 

Also  VitsJdi,  the  Queen, 

made  a Feast 

for  the  uxnueu  in  the  .royal  house 

which  belo)iged>  to  I\i)a/  Ahasicerus; 
and  none  there  were  drunken. 


On  the  seventh  day 

when  the  heart  of  the  King 

was  merry  with  wine 
He  commanded  to  bring 

Vashti  the  Queen 
before  the  King 

with  the  crown  royal 
To  shoio  the  people 

and  the  princes 
her  beauty; 

for  she  was  fair  to  look  on. 
(But  the  drinking 

was  according  to  law 

and  none  did  compel.) 


A Twentieth  Century  Queen. 

The  Queen ^ 

[a  Queen  of  queens^) 
refused  to  come 

at  the  Kiiufs  command. 


A Nineteenth  Centui'y  King,  Court 
and  People. 

Therefore  was  the  King  very  wroth, 

(as  well  as  drunken,) 
and  his  anger 

burned  in  him. 

Then  the  King  said 

to  the  wise  men, 

What  shall  we  do 

unto  the  Queen  Vashti 

according  to  law, 


Because  she  hath  not 

performed  the  commandment 

of  the  King  Ahasuems? 

And  Alemucan  answered 
before  the  King 

and  the  princes: 

Vashti  the  Queen 

not  only  to  the  King 

hath  done  wrong^ 

But  wrong  also 
* to  all  the  princes 

and  to  all  the  people. 

Nineteenth  Centuiy  Justice, 

[Kicking  against  the  pricks,) 

If  it  please  the  King 

let  there  go  from  him 

a royal  commandment^ 

And  let  it  he  written 

among  the  laws 

of  the  Aledes  and  Persians^ 

That  it  he  not  altered, 

that  Vashti  come  no  more 

before  King  Ahasuerus. 

[And,  lo!  until  the  Nineteenth  Century 
— till  at  its  vei^  close — 

Was  it  not  altered 

that  for  all  the  Vashtis 

the  kings  made  royal  commandment,) 
And  let  the  King 

give  her  royal  estate 

unto  another  better  than  she 

— [Better  titan  she 

who  was  good  enough 

for  the  Twentieth  Centui'y), 


A Nineteenth  Century  Conscience, 


When  it  shall  he  reported 

that  the  King  Ahasuei'us 
commanded 

Vashti  the  Queen 
to  he  brought  in  before  him, 
hut  she  came  not, 
This  doing  of  the  Queen 
shall  go  abroad 

unto  all  women 
So  that  they  in  their  eyes 
shall  despise 

their  husbands! 


A Glimpse 

Of  the  Twentieth  Century, 
[Forebodings.) 

The  ladies  of  Persia  and  Media 
when  they  have  heard 
Of  this  deed 

of  the  Queen  Vashti, 

Shall  say  likewise 

to  the  King's  princes! 

2Kus  shall  there  arise 

too  much  contempt 
and  wrath: 

[Let  wives  be  subject 

to  their  husbands 

in  eveipthing.) 


Nineteenth  Century  Force, 


But  when  shall  be  published 
the  King^s  decree^ 

All  the  wives 

to  their  husbands 
Both  great  and  small 

shall  give  honor. 

Thus  did  the  King 

according  to  the  advice  of  Memucan 
( — Advice  that  pleased  him). 


Selfish  Bepentance 
well  never  as  too  late)^ 

The  Like  of  Which  is  not  Unknown 
In  This  Nineteenth  Century. 

It  came  to  pass 

that  the  wrath  of  the  King 
was  appeased^ 

And  then  it  was 

that  he  remembered  Vashti; 

But  he  remembered  also 

that  for  what  she  had  do7ie, 
(Accoy'ding  to  the  laws 

of  the  Medes  and  1 Persians,) 
It  had  been  decreed 
against  her 

[According  to  the  advice 

that  pleased  him)^ 

And  might  not  be  altered. 


Kingly  Co'nstancy, 


Then  said  the  King's  servants: 

Let  there  he  sought 

for  the  King 

fair  young  virgins^ 

And,  instead  of  Vashti, 

(too  good  for  even  a king 

who  belonged  not  to  her  own  era,) 
Let  the  maiden  he  Queen 

which  best  pleaseth  thee 
(And  this,  also,  pleased  the  King). 


On  the  Eve 

Of  the  Twentieth  Century. 

And,  lo!  it  shall  come  to  pass 
that  there  shall  he 
Men  of  the  like  of  Ahasuerus 

and  of  the  like  of  Memucan, 

And  that  when 

for  their  own  pleasure, 

(as  men  drunken). 

They  shall  command 

the  doing  of  what 

pleaseth  themselves  only, 
They  shall  he  despised 
in  the  eyes  of 

all  the  Vashtis 
Who  will  do  only 

what  seemeth  good 


in  their  own  eyes! 


This  was  the  Scroll; 

But  not  alone 
did  I give  thought  to  it 
For  in  the  unrolling 

was  something  more  strange 
than  in  the  words: 
While  unrolled, 

the  Scroll  was  carried 

by  a company; 

— Xot  of  men  or  boys 
— All  were  girls 

young  and  beautiful; 
Nor  were  they  walking 
for  each  one  rode 
upon  a wheel 
— Nay,  upon  two  wheels 
and  with  rare  ease 
and  grace 
marvelous 

to  behold. 

In  their  hands 
(besides  the  Scroll) 
each  one  carried  a flag; 

And  the  flags 

were  of  two  colors 

— blue  and  white. 
These  gave  the  thought 
of  Pc'ace 
of  Love 

of  Fai  til  fill  ness; 

But  of  n‘d 

1 here  was  no  flag 
For  1 1m*  meaning  of  ri'd 
was  blood 
and  danger 
not  IN'aei*, 


So  here  was  no  place 

for  it. 

Only  in  the  young  faces 

was  any  red 
And  it  was  rich 

pure  crimson 
Which  had  the  meaning 
of  Life. 

When  the  unrolling 

was  ended 

I had  read  and  heeded 

all  the  words; 
When  this  they  saw, 

upon  the  faces  of  the  girls 
There  came  a glow  of  pleasure, 
as  of  a purpose  served; 
Then  they  backward  turned 
and,  wheeling  all  in  order, 
rolled  up  the  Scroll 
— and  I awoke! 

When  I awoke 
I was  in  darkness 

and  (lying  in  my  bed) 

I pondered  long 
upon  the  Vision. 

Not  as  dreams 

are  wont  to  be 
but  as  Life  itself 

was  the  Ausioii  real. 

Soon  mine  ('yes 
began  to  close 

and  voic(‘s  musical 
soot  li(‘d  nu'  again 

to  slumber; 


When  lo!  appeared 


the  self-same  company. 

Now  rolled  together 

was  the  Scroll; 

And,  tied  around  with  ribbons 
white  and  blue, 
’T  was  lying  on  a bank  of  flowers 
and  unguarded. 
Dismounted  were  the  girls 
together  grouped 

as  if  in  waiting; 

In  their  faces 

there  was  gladness 

— smiles  of  welcome. 
None  had  spoken, 

but  a sign  was  made 

by  one— a leader. 
Two  forward  came 

in  answer. 

Holding  now 

a second  Scroll 
But  smaller 

than  the  other. 
This  did  they  unroll 
and,  in  the  silence, 

I had  chance 

to  read: 

And  Laban  said  to  Jacob: 

Tell  me  what  shall  be 

thy  wages? 

And  Jacob  loved  Bachel 

and  said: 

For  Bachel 

thy  younger  daughter 
I will  serve  thee 

seven  years. 


And  Laban  said: 

It  is  better 

that  I give  her  to  thee 
Than  to  another  man 

— abide  with  me. 
And  Jacob  served  for  Bachel 

seven  years^ 

And  unto  him  they  seemed 

but  a few  days 
For  the  love  he  had 

to  her. 

And  Jacob  said  unto  Laban: 
Give  me  my  wife, 

for  my  days  are  fulfilled. 
And  it  came  to  pass 

in  the  evening 
That  he  took  Leah, 

his  daughter, 

And  brought  her 

to  Jacob, 

And  it  came  to  2^ctss 

that  in  the  morning 

behold  it  was  Leah! 
And  he  said- 

to  Laban: 

Did  I not  serve  with  thee 

for  Bachel? 

Why  hast  thou 

beguiled  me? 

And  Laban  said: 

It  must  not  be  so  done 

in  our  country 
To  give  the  younger 

before  the  first-born! 
And  he  gave  him  Bachel 

to  wife  also. 


9 


And  Jacob  loved  Bachel 

more  than  Leah; 

And  for  her 

he  seized  with  Laban 
yet  other  seven  years! 

Having  read  the  Scroll, 

I turned  inquiringly, 

Awaiting  pleasure 

of  the  company; 

One  spoke: 

“Now  tell  us; 

dost  thou  understand 
the  meaning 

of  the  writing?” 

“Methinks,”  I said, 

“The  meaning  is  so  plain 
that  he  who  runs 
may  read. 

If  one  may  be  like  Yashti 

of  so  long  ago. 

Well  fitted  she  to  be 

of  those  who  are  to  come 
in  years  unborn. 

And  Jacob, 

though  he  lived  longer  ago 
than  Yashti, 

In  his  loyalty, 

his  faithfulness 

and  manliness, 

A worthy  type  is  he 

of  centuries  henc(‘. 
Ii(sid  1 aright?” 

“Thou  hast  a heart 


that  well  deserves 

a woman’s  love, 
Else  thou  hadst  not 

interpreted  so  well 

the  Scrolls, 

Now  let  us 

to  our  purpose  here: 

Thou  art  our  Friend 

and  Brother; 
We  have  chosen  thee 

to  bear  for  us 
a Message 
to  the  world. 

First  tell  we  thee: 

Not  spirits  of  another  world 
(departed  hence)  are  we; 

Bodies  have  we 

of  flesh  and  blood 
And  (like  your  own)  they  lie 
in  pose  and  state 
of  slumber. 

We  are  our  second  selves 
together  banded  for  a purpose 
(and  unknown 

to  our  own  minds 
which  have  control 

of  waking  hours). 
When,  in  early  morn 
our  bodies  shall  arise. 

No  knowledge 

will  have  come  to  us 

of  this  our  doing! 
But  you— when  you  awake 
will  you  remember 
as  if 't  were  a dream; 
But  we  would  have  you  know 
10 


that  it  is 

more  than  dream! 

In  all  your  life 

no  thoughts  have  come  to  you 
more  real  than  this  reality. 
Your  second  self  it  is 
now  holding 

pleased  communion 
with  our  second  selves. 

But  to  our  Message 

(lest  the  daylight  come 
and  noise  or  murmur 
call  us  back 
to  wakefulness 
and  ere  our  task 

be  ended).” 

Then  a look  she  gave  to  one, 
who  forward  came, 

and  singing: 

“Fix  thou  well 

upon  thy  memory 
What  thou  learnest 

here  to-night; 

On  the  morrow 

thou  wilt  waken 
And,  by  writing, 

thou  mayest  tell  it 

everywhere.” 

Then  they  sang,  in  chorus: 

‘^Tell  it,  everywhere; 

To  thy  Brother, 

And  our  Brother, 

everywhere 
—to  Man. 

Be  it  in  our 


songs  or  speeches. 

Be  it  in  our 

pictures  fair. 
Everything  shall  be 

a lesson 

Easy  learned 

and  easy  heeded; 

Tell  it— tell  it— 

everywhere 
—To  thy  Brother 

and  our  Brother 
— To  Our  Brothers 

everywhere 
— Everywhere 

to  Man.” 

As  the  echo  of  their  voices 

died  away, 

Lo!  I saw 

a living  picture 

— nothing  strange 

but  all  familiar; 

Yet,  did  it 

(more  than  the  singing) 
touch  my  heart 
with  its  refrain. 
“Hark!”  said  one 

in  pose  of  list’ning, 
“Hear  the  music; 

Listen!  Listen! 

Saddest  of  refrains! 
Listen,  brother! 

Thou  wilt  hear  it.” 
Stronger  did  it  grow 

and  stronger 

Till  it  sounded 
IX 


loud  and  clear. 

There  were  words 

but  very  simple 

Words  we  all 

have  heard  before: 

“Life,”  they  told  us, 

“is  a Journey;” 
And  these  words 

were  oft  repeated 

in  the  sad  Refrain. 
Why  (I  thought) 

so  sad  the  music 

(though  the  melody 

was  sweet) 

—Why  are  journeys 

not  more  welcome 
Than  forever  staying,  resting, 
in  the  home? 
“Life  a Journey  is,” 

the  answer. 

Came  in  music  through  the  air 
in  sad  refrain. 

Well  the  picture  with  the  music 
seemed  to  blend 
And  I knew  they  had 

a meaning: 

In  the  picture 

was  a Highway 
Long  and  rough 

with  many  turns. 
There  were  levels, 

swards  of  green 

and  i)l(‘asure-places; 
Rut  of  bn‘ak.s 

of  holes  and  hillocks 


there  were  many  more; 
More  than  there  were 

resting-places 
were  the  ups  and  downs. 
Hill  and  valley 

rock  and  stream 

—such  it  was 

in  all  its  course. 

On  this  Highway 

they  were  moving 
— Trudging,  coursing, 

marching  ever; 
Were  they  creeping, 

were  they  racing, 
always  were  they 

moving  on. 

And  there  were 

of  every  nation. 

Every  age  and  class 

and  station; 

Babes  and  children, 

men  and  women, 
Healthy,  ailing, 

strong  or  helpless; 
Crowding,  jostling, 

were  the  many, 

Only  few 

were  helping  others. 

“Is  there  purpose 

in  it? 

—In  this  striving 

In  this  struggling?” 
“Life’s  a Journey,” 

sang  the  Voices, 
As  again  I asked 


the  question: 

“What  the  purpose 

in  it  all?” 

And  I saw  that  they 

who  journeyed, 

’Gainst  the  currents 

had  to  buffet 
Had  all  hardships 

to  endure 
— Obstacles 

to  overcome. 

“Is  there  any  purpose 

in  it?” 

But  no  answer 

to  our  questioning, 

Nor  ever  ceased  the  multitude 
to  move  along. 

Then  I saw 

along  the  way 

a home; 

And  in  it  was  a mother 

crooning  softly 

to  her  babe. 
Sweeter  was  her  voice 

than  nightingale 

or  summer  zephyr 
(Aye,  in  all  the  earth 

naught  else  so  sweet 

as  voice  of  mother). 
While  we  listened, 
all  the  people 
(who  were  journeying) 
seemed  to  pause 
to  listen  with  us. 
This  is  what  she  sang; 


0 cradle  here  on  my  hnee^ 

my  child, 

And  close  those  eyes 

in  sleep, 

Those  beautiful  eyes 

of  heavenly  blue. 
Wee  drops  are  they 

of  Heaven’’ s own  dew 
For  a time  to  earth 

now  given; 

1 pray  that  the  soul 

that  looks  out  of  them  here 
Be  kept  ever  safe 

from  all  danger  and  fear 
Till  it  find  its  way  back 

to  Heaven, 

While  the  mother  sang 

the  crooning  lullaby 

to  sleeping  babe, 
A man  of  giant  frame 
and  serious  mien 
(who  in  adjoining  room 
was  writing) 

stopped  to  listen. 
Brushing  with  his  hand 

a tear  away, 

He  slowly  rose  and  tiptoed 
to  a near-by  couch 
Wherein  were  sleeping 
sweet  girl  babes 

— two  sisters. 

Long  and  lovingly  he  gazed; 

then  taking  up  a Book 
He  opened  it,  and  read 

these  words: 


13 


Buth  said: 

Entreat  me  not 

to  leave  thee. 

Or  to  return 

from  following  after  thee; 
For  whither  thou  goest 

I will  go, 

And  where  thou  lodgest 

I will  lodge; 
Thy  people  shall  he  my  people, 
And  thy  God  my  God. 

lie  read  as  one 

who  loved  the  meaning; 
Then  he  turned  the  leaves 

and  read  again 
(But  long  he  paused 
when  he  had  read  these  words, 
and  closed  the  Book): 

Fast  ye  for  me 

and  neither  eat  nor  drink 
three  days, 

I also 

and  my  maidens; 

A nd  so  v'ill  1 go  in 

unto  the  King 
( Which  to  the  law 

is  not  according) 

A ral  if  I jwrish 

I perish. 

Tlicsc  were;  t he  words 

of  Kst  her 
\Vr)rds  of  her  who  dared 

displeasure  (h’  1 h(‘  I< iiig 
('The  King  whom  \'ashl  i dared 


to  her  undoing) 
—Dared  that  she  might  save 

her  people  and  herself. 

And  now  the  picture  faded 

and  was  gone. 

Long  away  upon  the  Highway 
in  a distant  city 
Were  a gathered  few 

in  Class,  at  study: 
The  teacher  was  a man 

of  gentle  manner 
—One  who  studied  of  the  stars 
and  taught  their  meaning. 
“She  was  born,”  he  said, 

“July — this  month — 
The  hour  was  four  o'clock 
and  minutes  seventeen; 

’t  was  afternoon 
and  Sunday. 

As  I promised  you, 

we  cast,  to-night, 

the  horoscope 
Of  this  new  baby  sister 

of  our  little  friends 
—of  Kutli  and  Esther.” 

Then  he  spoke 

of  many  things 

about  her  life  to  be; 
Whereat  I wondered,  for  to  me 
it  was  not  well 
Cor  man  to  say  what  is  to  be 

the  future! 

Man  knoweth  not; 

(we  hav(‘  Ixmmi  told) 

th(‘  hour  or  day; 


How  shall  he  know 

the  future 

Which  may  be  far  surer 
to  his  own  undoing 

than  to  his  unraveling! 

Not  all  could  I repeat 

of  what  he  said 
If  even  it  were 

to  my  liking  so  to  do; 


She  will  have 

a mind  original 

—even  curious  shall  be 
ideas  her  own. 
She  will  dominate 

through  mind; 

In  books  and  thought 

more  than  in  art 
will  she  find  fields 

to  rove. 


But  more  remembered  I 

than  may  be  understood: 

“Charts  are  maps,” 

said  he,  “of  forces. 

In  the  worlds  around, 

which  play  upon  us. 
Now  within  the  soul 

is  latent  power 

— ’t  is  spirit. 

Spirit  may  discern  itself 

and  so  it  is  that  psychic  force 
may  lift  the  veil. 

This  babe  has  future  bright 

before  her. 

Not  unclouded  is  her  life, 

for  sickness  (even  trouble) 
is  for  her 

As  trouble  is  for  all 

of  woman  born. 
But  auspices  are  good 

and  full  of  promise 
Of  a life  above  the  level 

of  the  crowd. 


Friends  will  come  to  her 
but  better  it  will  be 
if  they  be  few  than  many! 
—This  is  strange  to  speak 

but  true. 

She  will  be  original 
—big-hearted,  unconventional, 
yet  lacking  naught 

in  dignity  of  manner. 

Will  she  marry? 

Yes,  and  marry  well — 
One  standing  high 

in  office,  or  in  state; 
Nor  think  you  she  will  marry 

politics  alone. 
For  that  were  marrying  ill, 

not  well; 

Aye,  Heaven  help  the  maid 
who  marries  less  than 

character. 

Or  only  wealth,  or  name, 

or  high  position! 
—Much  of  promise 

has  the  future  of  this  babe.” 


“Her  name?'’  one  asked; 

“Her  naming 

is  beyond  the  teaching 
of  this  Chart,” 
he  answered. 

“Were  she  mine, 

her  name  would  Vashti  be, 
or  Rachel. 

Y ashti — Rachel ! 

woman  new  and  old; 

All  beautiful 

and  good. 

The  new 

includes  the  old; 

It  is  the  greater 

that  includes  the  less; 

The  good  in  woman 
of  the  ages  past 

is  woman’s  now; 
Though  woman  now 

to  woman  past 

owes  all  her  present. 
What  is  better  now  in  her 
—advanced,  less  fettered— 

is  her  own. 

Vashti— Rachel 

— woman  new  and  old 

but  always  woman; 
Always  f)ur(i  and  true, 

aye,  lovely,  lovabhi 

and  loving. 

"J'his  young  balx^ 

if  t hey  do  call  Iht  Rachel 

it;  is  well; 

Nh‘t  I would  call  her 

V'ashti. 


Now  to  our  Lesson: 

choose  thou  each  a Word; 
Let  it  be 

thy  very  own; 

In  the  Silence 

ponder  on  it; 

It  will  grow 

within  thy  being 
It  will  build 

within  thy  Soul; 
In  the  beginning 
was  the  Word 

and  the  Word  was  God. 
So  thy  Word— thy  Logos— 

shall  creative  be; 
So  will  grow  thy  Soul — 

thy  Spirit— by  thy  Word. 
Thou  hast  learned  already 
that  thy  form 

is  thine  own  Spirit 

manifest; 

What  thou  art 

(as  men  observe  thee) 

Is  expression— the  creation— 
of  thy  Spirit. 

Choose  thou  then  thy  Word 

and  make  it  serve  thee. 
Let  it  be  a principle 

of  Truth,  of  Right 
Within  thy  Soul 

forever  working. 
Know  thou  hast  within  thyself 
ci‘(‘ativ(‘  power  and  choice; 
l‘'or  only  t hus 

couldst  thou  work  out 
t hine  own  salvation. 


10 


Aye,  thou  hast  choice 

to  build  within  thyself; 
And  thou  mayest  build  for  good, 
or  lesser  good. 

Build  for  the  best 

and  sooner  shalt  thou  learn 
the  purpose  of  thy  being. 
Choose  thou  well 

thy  Logos, 

Build  thou  well 

O Spirit; 

Let  thy  choice  be  Good 
— what  inaketh  most  for 

Eighteousness.” 


He  paused 

and  long  I wondered  . 
that  he  spoke  so  well, 

and  for  the  good 
— not  evil; 

For  I had  looked, 

from  such  as  he, 

for  evil  only; 
But  I thought  it  well 

that  in  his  teaching 
there  was  plan 
and  purpose 
and  not  chaos! 

—When  lie  paused 

a pupil  questioned 

of  a brother  pupil: 
“Tell  me— what  the  Logos 

of  the  teacher?” 
“It  is  Peace,”  he  said. 

“And  thine?” 


“Is  Sympathy,” 

he  answered. 

Then  I thought  well  chosen 

was  the  Logos  of  the  pupil; 
Well  in  touch 

with  all  of  Nature 
With  the  high,  the  low, 

the  fallen. 

Sympathy  will  bring  him. 


Sympathy  would  be  a solvent 
for  the  ills  and  pains 
of  others; 

It  would  draw  all  men 

together, 

It  would  be  a bond 

of  union; 


And  I said 

I,  too,  will  choose  it 

as  my  Logos 


— I will  choose 

as  did  the  pupil 

— “Sympathy.” 


One  questioned  of  the  teacher: 
“Is  it  fate 

that  has  the  saying 

in  our  lives? 

Or  are  we  guided? 

— Are  we  driven? 

— Have  we  naught  of  choice?” 
He  answered: 

“Yes  and  no;  is  purpose  fate? 
Then  it  is  fate  to  IWe, 

to  move,  to  have  our  being; 
Life  has  purpose. 

Life  is  purpose; 


17 


Yet  impelled  are  we 

—not  driven, 

And  drawn  on  are  we 

—not  guided, 
While  we  all 

have  choice. 

Is  it  paradox? 

So  Life  itself  is  paradox; 
Yet  Life  has  meaning, 

plan  and  purpose. 

If ’t  is  fate 

to  have  a time  for  birth 
And  fate  to  live 

the  life  appointed; 

Then  our  Life  indeed 

has  much  of  fate; 

For  when  the  time  is  ripe 

the  seed  is  planted; 
When  the  time  appointed 

is  fulfilled 
The  Soul  emerges 

into  being. 

Shall  we  say  T is  fate 

to  be  surrounded 
I>y  the  forces 

of  our  outer  world? 

Or  ‘t  is  fate  to  have 

some  knowl(‘dge 
( )f  t he  powers 

of  t li(‘S(‘  f()rc(‘s 
All  around  us 

and  fibnul  us? 
Knowing  our  en vi  I’onmenl , 
and  ovcry  I’oicm^ 

I hat  hoars  upon  us, 

IH 


We  invite  and  welcome 

—or  forbid — resisting; 
For  the  good 

shall  we  be  not  unready, 

Yor  against  the  evil 

be  unguarded? 
If  ’tis  fate  to  live  for  aught, 
to  live  in  power  for  purpose. 
We  may  know  that  Life  is  fate, 
then  we  may  say: 

“Lejoice,  O man,  to  live, 

and  welcome— fate!” 

Once  again 

the  picture  faded 
Once  again 

the  sad  Refrain, 

And  the  Voices, 

as  I listened. 

Sang  the  words 
in  ihaintive  tone: 
“This  Life’s  a Journey 

—Life’s  a Journey— 

and  the  Highway 

is  for  all.” 

And  I saw 

the  throng  ke])t  moving 

always  moving  - moving  on, 
AVhen  T (piest  ioned: 

What  t he  meaning 

— Is  there  i)urpose 
in  it  all? 

Till'  answ(‘r  was  an  echo 

of  I h(‘  sad  Refrain: 
“ddiis  l/i r(‘’s  a .louriK'y  — 

I Lif(‘'s  a .lourney;” 


And  the  throng 

kept  moving  on. 

Then  I saw  a waste 

of  waters 
And  a picture 

on  beyond; 

Now  aged  and  feeble, 

sad  and  lonely, 
Two  were  sitting, 

singing  low. 
Within  sight  of  ocean 

sat  they — 

Ocean  vast  and  grand 

and  sad; 

Sore  chafing 

where  its  bounds  were  stayed. 
There  in  its  sough 

was  sigh  and  sorrow. 
In  its  restless  swell 

was  sobbing, 

— Voicing  of  Eternity. 
Grand  monotone 

of  Life  and  Being 
All-embracing, 

all-devouring. 

Loved  and  feared 

as  is  the  human! 

Looking  out 

upon  its  surface. 
Wondering  of  its  power, 

its  meaning. 

Sadly,  softly, 

did  they  sing 
These  homely  words, 

and  simple  melody: 


TFeVe  lonely  without  you, 
our  hoy, 

While  darkness 

overshadows 

the  lea, 

Why  stay  you 

forever  away 

so  far  o^er  the  deep, 

roaring  seal 

We've  waited 

your  coming 

for  years 

While  wove  after  wave 

heat  the  shore. 

And  prayed 

to  our  Father  in  Heaven 
To  bring  our  dear  hoy 

home  once  more. 

While  they  sat 

at  open  window 

Singing 

as  I heard  them  there. 
Close  without 

within  the  tree-shade, 
Listening  all 

was  group  of  neighbors, 
These  were  playmates 

of  the  absent  one, 

of  long  before. 

Sympathetic, 

tenderhearted. 

Often  had  they  joined 

at  evening 

Gathered  there 

to  wait  some  message 
From  the  one 

in  far-off  land. 


When  the  old  folks’  song 

was  ended, 

Ln  a chorus 

they  would  join, 

And  I listened 

to  their  singing: 

Sadly  wedl  watch 

till  you  come 

Though  slow  pass  the  days 

now  so  few; 

()  write  us  and  say 

that  you  do  not  forget 
— We  never  cease  thinking 

of  you. 

Then  the  mother 

sat  there,  sobbing, 
Andy  tremblingly,  the  old  man 
sang  alone: 

How  often 

beside  the  old  cot 
Hoes  mother  sit  lonely 

and  weep; 

She  has  only  one 

waking  thought, 

She  dreams  of  her  hoy 

while  asleep; 

( ) 'where  'is  our  dear  hoy 

— our  child! 

[Ve  hoped — O .so  long — 

he  would  write 
— The  poslma'a  has  'juisscd 
no  teller  has  come 
A nd,  ()  ire  are  lonely 

lo- night. 

And  now  Irorn  o'er  tin*  wal(T 

was  anol  Ik'P  picl  lire: 


’T  was  a farmer’s  dwelling 
—Homely  plain 

and  unpretentious; 
Hearty,  wholesome, 

not  ungentle, 

Were  the  manners 

of  the  people 

in  this  home. 
Within,  upon  a bed, 

in  restless  fever, 

Lay  a man 

who  yet  while  young 
was  old. 

There  were  friends 

around  him 

— Friends  who  nursed  him  well 
and  soothed 

his  dying  pillow. 

There  was  one 

whose  presence 
Brought  him  comfort,  peace, 
and  restfulness 
(As  always  does  the  presence 

of  a mother). 

Near  the  end, 

the  sick  man 

to  this  mother  said; 
“You  have  been  to  me 

a mother; 

—I  have  wondered 

why  you  loved  me, 
So  unwort  hy  am  I 

of  such  holy  blessing; 

Only  (Jod 

cjin  now  reward  you 
t'or  I know  t hat  1 

am  dying 


:o 


—I  have  naught 

to  pay  you.” 

Then  she  answered  him 

— this  woman  beautiful — 
And  smiling 

in  her  tears: 
“Already  have  I been 

rewarded; 

God  has  blessed  me 

— Am  I not  a mother? 

’Tis  the  mother-love 

he  gave  me 

that  is  yours; 

I have  loved  you 

as  I hope 

Some  mother  of  her  love 

unstinting 

May  have  given 

my  dear  boy 
So  long  away  and  far 

from  home.” 

“I  am  comforted,” 

he  answered, 

“And  I pray  that  you 

be  blessed 

With  love  of  son 

more  worthy 
Of  a mother’s  love 

than  I have  been; 

I,  too,  am  long  away 

and  far 

From  her  who  gave  me 
birth. 

And  when  I said 

‘good  bye’ 

I gave  her  promise 


I would  write 

and  tell  her  all  my  life: 
May  God  forgive 

my  sin  inhuman; 

Long  have  I 

neglected  her 
Who  never  for  one  day, 

mayhap  one  hour. 
Has  had  me  out  of  mind 

— me  so  unworthy 
— ’Tis  my  sin 

hardest  to  forgive.” 
Whereat  he  wept. 


“Forgiven  is  the  mother’s  boy 
already,” 

Said  the  woman, 

“For  she  loves  you  yet 

— your  mother. 
And  you  shall  write  to  her 
to-night.” 

With  this  the  mother, 
sweet  and  beautiful 

as  mothers  are. 
Took  pen  to  write 

the  story  of  it  all 
—The  wandering, 

neglect,  repentance. 
But— the  best  of  all— 

of  love  not  dead. 
“Write  it  again,”  he  said, 

in  tears, 

“I  love  you, 

mother  dear, 

I love  you  now 

as  ne’er  before 

—my  mother.” 


When ’t  was  done 

—the  letter  sealed— 
The  dying  man 

said,  faintly: 
“Ask  them,  mother, 

now  to  sing 

the  song  I love.” 
And  then  one  sang 

with  tender  voice 

this  song: 

The  home  folks 

are  the  best  folks 

when  you’re  sick 
And  from  your  own  home 

far  away, 

Though  jAain  their  ways 

their  hearts  are  big, 
God  bless  them  eveiywliere 

we  say; 

When  earth  is  fair 

and  Fortune  smiles  on  you 
And  giddy  Fashion 

has  her  sway, 

’’Tis  only  then 

you  may  not  know 

their  worth. 

For  Fashion^ s way 

is  not  their  way. 

And  then  in  chorus 

sang  they  all 
—The  brothers  and  the  sisters 
of  this  home 

so  boaut  iful: 

God  bless  the  lunne  folks 

tried  and  true. 


We  dearly  love 

their  honest  way. 
The  latch-string  out 

through  good  or  ill, 
God  bless  them  everywhere 

we  say. 

“Yes— every  where 

—I— say,” 

The  dying  man  repeated; 

— with  these  words 

his  life  went  out. 

I was  taken  back  again 
across  the  waters 

to  the  sea-side  home. 
All  were  there 

the  friends,  the  neighbors; 
They  had  come 

the  dead  to  bury 
— Father,  mother  — 

in  one  grave 

together 

As,  slowly, 

from  the  cottage  home 
The  bodies  of  the  dead 

were  borne 
The  postman  called 

and  left— a letter! 
Ah!  then  I thought 

the  humblest  life 

may  have  its  tragedy; 
But  is  the  tragedy  itself 

the  i)urpose? 
Is  it  of  one’s  life 

the  ending? 


If  it  were, 

there  were  no  meaning 
— neither  purpose 
or  a meaning- 
in  this  life  at  all. 

‘"No,”  I said, 

“’t  is  not  the  ending 
—End  of  life 

must  be  beginning 
of  some  larger  life 

beyond.” 

And  then  for  answer 

saw  I written 
on  another  Scroll 

these  words: 
‘*It  seems  a paradox, 
but  we  do  know 

that  such  is  Life  itself; 
Men  who  coldly  dwell 

in  science 
Tell  us  it  is 

paradox; 

For  “Only  as  we  die 

we  live,” 
they  tell  us, 

“And  so  soon 

as  we  stop  dying, 

we  stop  living!” 

So  one  wiser 

than  his  fellows 
(Long  before 

the  men  of  science) 
Spoke  the  truth 
of  living,  dying. 
“We  die  daily,” 

were  his  words 

of  wisdom; 


In  our  living 

— in  our  growing — 

we  are  daily  dying; 

In  our  dying 

—in  our  failing— 

we  are  stronger  growing. 
Then  is  death 

not  death; 

Then  is  death 

but  larger  living. 
Life  is  paradox; 

In  life  we  are  in  death 
—In  death,  in  life, 

and  always 

larger  life. 

Then  what  we  know 
as  death 

must  be  more  life, 

—It  must  be 

larger  living 
—dying  into  larger  life 
beyond. 

I was  back  again 

from  o’er  the  waters 
When  I read  the  answer 

to  my  questioning. 
Now  the  scene 

was  changed; 

And  not  an  echo 

. heard  I 
Of  the  sad  Refrain 

that  haunted  me  before. 
I wondered  much  at  this 

for  sadness  fitted  well 
My  thoughts  of  tragedy 

and  death, 


23 


Upon  the  breeze  there  rose 

another  melody; 
In  it  no  note  of  sadness; 
neither  gay  nor  lively 
— only  restful,  quiet, 

soothing,  was  it. 
It  was  moonlight 

calm  and  peaceful, 
And  in  listening 

to  the  strains 
all  comforting 

I saw  this  scene: 

Beneath  a tree 

on  rustic  seat 

a maiden  sat 
alone. 

A pensive  look 

was  in  her  face, 
and  on  her  knee 

an  open  book; 

While  she  read, 

a light  flashed 

o’er  her  face 

As  flashes 

o’er  the  heaven 

Aurora  Borealis. 
A writer  from  the  North, 

with  vivid  insight. 

Had  expressed 

Ills  inner  soul 

upon  t lie  pages 
—this  bis  thought: 

“Congeniality  of  soul  is  Lovc', 
ent  linsiast  ic  and  illmnin(‘d. 
’T is  a sense  profound 

of  harmony  pervasiv(‘; 


’T  is  not  physical 
— it  is  for  both 

a consonance  of  nature, 
strange,  delicious. 
More  than  half  its  joy 
is  being  understood 
in  all  one’s  noblest  powers; 
What  the  beloved  believes 

the  lover  is 

As  they  sound  on  together 
—these  two  chords, 
and  in  embrace 
melodious. 

Beveling  in  eloquence ' 
and  charm 

and  beauty,  joy. 
What  happy  speech 

audacious, 

What  glorious  heights 

of  feeling. 

What  flashes  rare 

of  insight. 

In  so  being  tuned 

octaves  above  one’s  self! 

To  feel 

in  noble  woman’s  soul 
The  resonance 

of  one's  own  speech, 

To  have  returned  our  thought 
enriched  and  beautified 
in  passing  through 
her  mind 

— Heat  il  ude  is  this 
higlK'st^  of  all 

which  earth  may  oiler,’* 


Now  the  maiden 

laid  aside  her  book 

and  fell  in  reverie. 
Upon  a cushion  soft 

her  head  reclined 
and  soon  she  was  asleep. 
Anon  there  came  a man 

in  happy  mood 

low  whistling. 

He  was  looking 

for  the  maiden 

as  it  seemed, 

And  lovingly 

upon  her  form  he  gazed 

and  tenderly. 

He  softly  came 

and,  with  a scarf. 

He  bound  her  down 

in  mock  imprisonment. 
And  then  he  sang  into  her  ear 
sweet  words  of  love; 
Softly,  at  first,  he  sang, 
as  if  it  were  his  will 
that  she  might  hear 
while  dreaming. 

This  the  Song 

—the  words  and  melody: 

The  joys  of  this  old  world 

are  many,  my  darling, 

Of  pleasures  of  life 

I have  tasted  a few. 

But  all  that  life  offers 

though  doubled  twice  over. 
In  a balance 

were  wanting,  love, 

weighed  without  you. 

35 


This  world,  O my  darling, 

were  nothing  without  you, 
Td  give  it  all  up,  love, 

and  make  no  ado, 
And  take  any  world 

— any  world  they  might 
give  me. 

If  only,  my  darling, 

with  it  they'd  give  you. 

Then  come  to  me,  darling, 
my  own  one, 
my  dear  one. 

The  dearest,  the  sweetest  girl 
ever  I knew; 
I love  you,  my  darling, 

so  truly,  so  fondly. 
This  world  were  no  world 

if  it  were  not  for  you. 

The  breezes  so  joyously, 

wantonly  gay,  love. 
Beveled  in  bliss  of  a kiss 

as  they  blew; 
My  heart,  love,  throbbed  wildly 
— throbbed  jealously  wildly — 
Whomever  they  missed,  love, 

H is  sure  they  kissed  you. 

I heard  the  birds  singing 

so  softly,  so  sweetly, 
A message  they  told,  love, 

I hold,  love,  't  was  true. 
And  this  was  the  message 
— that  some  one  now  loves  me; 
That  some  one, 

my  loved  one, 

was  no  one  but  you. 


Tm  going  to  win  you, 

my  dear  one, 

my  sweet  one; 
So  said  one  wise  bird 

ere  away,  love,  he  flew. 
Who  sent  the  sweet  message? 

I fondly  believe,  love, 
^Twas  you — you,  my  darling, 
yes,  darling,  H was  you. 
Then  a wee  little,  sweet  little 

word  you  might  say,  love. 
It  goes  with  a kiss, 

wonH  you  give  me  that,  too? 
If  you  had  the  asking 

and  I had  the  giving. 
Id  say:  ^^Yes,  my  darling;'^ 

now,  darling,  won^t  you? 

The  maiden  wakened 

and  she  tried  to  rise 
But  found  herself  pinned  down 
by  loving  bands  and  hands. 
Methought  her  not  unwilling 

to  be  prisoner, 
For  small  the  effort 

that  she  made 
To  burst  the  bands 

so  slight,  so  strong. 
Tlien  did  he  sing  again 

the  words  of  j)lcading 
— tliat  slie  come  to  liiin; 

Yet  were  lier  eyes  not  0])en 

and  she  answ(‘red  nothing. 
Then  he  said,  again, 

wit  lj  pleading  voice? 

and  thrilling: 


“With  a kiss  it  goes 

— the  word,  my  darling, 

—say  it;” 

And  with  that 

he  took  the  kiss, 

and  unresisted. 

Onoe  again  I saw  the  lover; 
it  was  moonlight, 

quiet,  peaceful. 

He  was  singing 

with  the  voice 

of  one  content. 
Such  is  the  power  of  love, 

and  pleasing  to  me 

was  the  picture. 
This  his  singing 

as  I listened: 

O for  me 

the  Stars  shine  bright 

to-night! 

For  me 

the  Stars  shine  bright, 

shine  bright; 

My  love  has  plighted  troth, 

her  troth  with  mine. 
And  all  my  sky  is  bright 

to-night. 

The  hvok,  the  breeze, 

the  flower's,  the  sky. 

All  join 

in  siccetest  harmony 
To  sing  of  love 

of  love  so  real 
lliat  all  the  world 

its  joy  may  feel; 


O Star  of  Hope! 

O Glorious  Light! 

O Love  of  Mine! 

0 World  of  Joy! 

For  now  for  me 
the  Stars  shine  bright  to-night, 
For  me  the  Stars 

shine  bright,  shine  bright; 
My  love  has  plighted  troth — 

her  troth  with  mine — 
And  all  my  shy  is  bright 

to-night! 

Ah!  Yes,  I thought, 

what  power  in  Love! 
And  thought, 

if  aught  there  weye 

in  Life 

That  might  its  purpose  be— 
its  meaning,  aye,  its  end — 
it  must  be  Love. 

Again  I saw  the  lovers 
now  betrothed 

in  good  old  fashion; 
They  their  way 

were  wending  to  the  house 
— The  same  farm  dwelling 

that  I saw  before. 
Then  in  old-fashioned  way, 
the  father  gave  the  daughter 
to  her  lover. 

— They  were  gone 

—the  children— 

from  the  home 
— All  gone,  save  two 

—the  daughter. 


soon  to  leave 
Upon  the  arm  of  him 

who  won  her  love; 
And  one— a son, 
who  at  the  homestead  stayed. 
Who  stayed  that  they 

who  could  not  leave 
—The  father  and  the  mother— 
be  not  left  alone. 

’Tis  ever  so 

that  one  must  stay 
To  bear  the  burden 

(if,  indeed,  it  be  a burden) 
And  to  comfort,  help  and  cheer 
the  ones  grown  old, 
As  they  grow  older 

and  more  feeble. 
There  is  always  one 

to  stay, 

Who  waits 

till  all  have  chosen 
—Till  for  him,  or  her, 

there  is  no  choice 
(Save  that  of  love 

and  duty); 

Then  it  is  that  he 

or  she 

Are  left  to  move  along 

the  way  appointed 
(Way  that  after  all  may  be 
the  chosen  way). 
Now  four  were  gone  from  home 
two  sons,  two  daughters; 
To  the  city 

had  they  gone 


—The  city 

where  the  other  sister 
Soon,  a bride, 

would  find  her  home. 
And  there  was  aching 

in  the  hearts 

of  them  now  left 
—An  aching  at  the  quiet 
of  the  home, 
the  absence 
of  the  loved  ones. 
Gone  the  songs, 

the  merry  laughter. 
Cheery  voices, 

youthful  frolics; 
And  in  place  was  thought 

of  strugglings. 
Of  the  serious  side  of  Life 

in  the  outside  world 

of  toil. 

But  theychoked  it  down 

—their  sorrow— 

Did  the  father,  mother, 
brother, 

And  they  welcomed 

him  wlio  came 
To  take  away  the  sunsliine 
that  went  out  witli  sister, 
daughter. 

And  in  clieery  tones 

they  said: 


one  that  we  all  love 

so  well.” 

But  their  hearts 

their  tears,  their  voices, 

All  belied 

this  cheery  fiction. 

For  they  knew 

’t  was  going  from  them 
into  other  living,  doing. 
And  to  be  forever  after 
more  and  more 

from  them  apart. 
Though  they  hoped 

that  love  would  linger 

long  around  them. 
Well  they  knew 

it  was  a weaning 

from  themselves; 

That  they  often 

would  be  hungered 
For  the  love 

so  deep  and  tender 
That  had  in  their  hearts 

been  growing 
all  the  years 

—To  go  out  now,  in  a moment 
(as  it  seemed) 

and  to  a stranger! 

What  the  claim 

of  one  so  distant 
That  it  should  be 


“We  sliall  fe(‘l 

t hat  we  iiav(‘  taken 
''J'o  our  liearl s 

anot  her  dear  oru'; 
Not  tliat  we  away  liave  given 


even  stronger 
Than  the  t ies  of  birth, 

of  kinshii). 

Or  of  all  the  years 

of  home? 


But  the  answer 

is  a mystery 
(Though  full  it  be 

of  meaning) 

For  it  has  no  other  reason 
than  the  mystic  tie 

—of  Love! 


Again  was  I 

in  Class: 

And  youthful 

were  the  students 
—Youthful,  earnest, 

buoyant. 

At  the  Fount  of  Knowledge 
thirsting. 

He  who  struck  the  Eock 

of  Waters 

Was  one  dreamy, 

introspective, 
And  he  had  for  all  the  people 

of  the  lowly  world 
A feeling  sympathetic, 

and  most  tender. 
His  the  work  to  teach 

of  Nature, 

Of  her  secrets, 

of  her  wonders. 

And  they  called  the  subject 

science; 


But  I noted 

in  his  teaching 
He  had  turned  the  thought 

of  pupils 

From  the  cold,  bare  heights 
of  Knowledge 


To  the  deeper,  warmer  science 
of  the  human  heart 

and  need. 

In  sympathy  I listened 
to  the  words 

that  he  was  speaking 
as  the  picture 
came  in  view: 
‘‘Oh!  the  tragedy  of  Life 
— Aye,  if  you  will — 

of  common  life. 
’Tis  the  life  of  yours 

and  mine. 

Of  king  and  priest 

of  artist,  poet,  felon. 

In  the  world’s  great  mortar 
ground  together. 
Melted  into  liquid  mass, 
and  by  the  iron  hand 
of  one’s  environment 
new  molded 

into  personality! 
Are  we  not  one  soul 

— both  you  and  I, 
And  by  the  breath 

of  circumstance 
but  modified 

or  re-created? 

Aye,  before  this  tragedy 

of  living 

— Its  awfulness 

and  question — 
How  we  shiver 

— how  to  nothingness 

we  shrink! 


29 


This  surging,  palpitating, 
bitter  thing 
— We  call  it  Life! 

And  if  it  humble  be 

we  call  it  common! 
But  we  dig  beneath 

the  surface. 

And  we  find  this  thing 

created 

Is  a sentient  thing 

of  meaning. 

Is  it  common 

when  ’tis  groveling? 

In  its  very  depths 

is  tragedy. 

If  it  silent  be 

and  helpless. 

If  accepted 

without  question. 

If  without  a moan 

endured, 

— All  the  more  severe 

its  agony. 

Only  ITe 

who  life  created 
— Jle  alone  can  know 

its  ending. 

And  how  incomplete 

tli(i  fulness 
Of  the  common  life 

of  earth; 

( )nly  He  can  know 

how  helpless 
Who  upon  t h(i  soul 

liat  h })ound<‘(l 


The  measure  of  its  own 

environment; 
For  circumstance, 

as  molder 
Of  the  life  of  man, 

seems  hopeless 
As ’t  is  merciless 

and  fateful. 

Oh!  the  tragedy 

of  Life! 

Underneath  its  commonplace 
all  the  tragedies 
are  found; 

—All  the  tragedies,  the  epics, 
oratorios,  romances, 
That  enchain 

the  wildest  fancies 

of  a world. 

Are  they  common 
— these  the  workers 

in  the  underworld  of  life? 
True,  their  toiling 

is  for  others. 

And  for  all  their 

higher  needs 
They  themselves 

are  destitute. 

Priest  and  teacher, 

yeoman,  laborer, 
Does  their  toiling 

and  their  needing. 
Aye,  their  starving, 

make  them  common? 
( )f  p()(‘ta*y  and  f(‘eling, 

of  sentiment  and  loving, 


Is  there  any  more 

in  culture 

Than  there  is 

in  common  toil? 

What  is  poetry 

but  Nature, 

What  is  sentiment 

but  Soul 
Which  all  living 

may  but  broaden, 
Which  no  culture 

can  create? 

Let  us  claim  our  kinship, 

fellows. 

With  this  underworld 

of  Life; 

Let  our  hearts  with  love 

and  sympathy 
Throb  on  and  on 

forever 

To  the  music — rythmic  music 

of  the  spheres  eternal; 
And  when  our  eyes 

are  brim  with  tears 
Of  sympathy 

and  love. 

We  shall  have 

poetic  fancy 

That  this  world’s  great  heart 
is  throbbing 
with  our  own; 
We  shall  have  a feeling 

tender 

That  we  clasp  its  hand 

in  ours. 


Then,  knowing  we  ourselves 

are  of  the  human  mass; 

No  more  our  little  vanities, 

our  common,  petty  vanities. 
That  ill  become 
a little  part 

of  one  Great  Whole; 
That  ill  become 
so  small  a part 

of  one  Great  Soul.” 

The  picture  faded 

and  I saw  another: 

’T  was  a woman; 

— small  her  face, 

her  features  pinched 
and  pale  and  thin; 
her  eyes  near  lusterless; 
A look  she  had 

of  one  whose  life 

was  all  a weariness 
— a hopeless  thing; 
And  she  to  all  the  world 

was  listless, 

As  the  world  of  her 

was  thoughtless. 
She  was  one  whose  face 

seemed  void  of  interest, 
But  on  second  look 

one  saw  a gleam 
of  deeper  light 
beneath  the  surface; 
Then  her  face  took  on 
a greater  meaning 

— meaning  of  a Soul. 


31 


was  in  her  home 
and  he  who  was  a teacher 
sought  an  entrance 

at  the  humble  door. 
Surprised  the  w oman  was 

until  she  saw 

That  he  had  come 

on  kindly  errand  bent 

to  greet  one 
in  his  service. 

He  was  of  the  higher  walks, 
a teacher; 

In  the  undertow  of  life  was  she 
—a  servant. 
Modest  was  this  home, 

but  he— the  teacher^ 
spoke  admiringly 

of  all  he  saw. 

“It  is  my  all 

--this  little  home,” 

the  woman  said, 
—“For  it,  and  God, 

are  all  there  is  in  life 

for  me.” 

“Hut  you  have  human  ties” 

he  questioned; 
“Yes,”  the  woman  said, 

then  paused, 

And  o’er  her  face 

all  wrinkled,  plain 

and  sallow, 

Cain(j  a look  f)f  j>ati(*nce 

with  tin*  pal  hos  in  it 

of  tli(i  Glirist; 

“These  liuinan  tics  ain’t  always 
what  they  promise; 


When  you  work  upon 

this  tiny  kettle, 
You  will  make  it  bright 

and  shiny. 

And  you’re  sure 

’twill  always  answer  you; 
There’s  a greetin’  here  for  me 

when  home  I come; 

’Tis  more  than  I can  say 
for  them  I’m  workin’  for 

and  slavin’; 

Not  that  I am  done 

a tryin’  for  them. 

Nor  sha’n’t  be 

so  long’s  I’m  livin’, 
But  you’ve  got  to  do 

a somethin’  always 

that  will  give  you  rest; 
There’s  somethin’  soothin’ 

in  the  way  that  nickle’s 
shinin’  on  the  stove, 
—Somethin’  soothin’ 

in  the  roses 

on  them  curtains. 

Life  ain’t  brought  me 

much  of  comfort, 
But  I’m  thankful 

for  the  soap  and  water 

and  my  muscle. 

Ill  the  night, 

when  I must  lie  awake 

and  think, 

I g{‘t  to  feel  in’  small 

and  good  for  nothin’, 


Then  there  comes  to  me 
from  somewheres,  off,  away, 

a thought  of  Grod, 

And  somehow 

I am  comforted  to  know 
I’m  not  alone 
In  what  I’ve  got  to  do 
and  bear.” 

And  so  in  common  life  he  found 
both  poetry  and  heroism 
— More  than  one  may  find 

sometimes  in  palaces. 
Ah!  there  are  heroines 
who  know  it  not. 

Nor  does  the  world  remember 
to  record  their  names. 
Nor  does  it  matter 

in  the  ending; 

In  the  sunlight  everlasting 

of  all  time. 

No  man  is  great 

nor  woman. 

For  the  hills 

live  on  forever 
And  their  shadows 

fall  upon  their  work. 
And  lo!  their  names 

are  all  forgotten; 
But  out  from  all  our  lives 
— the  little  and  the  big — 
From  out  the  patience 

and  the  love,  and  charity. 
Will  grow  for  each 
a Life  with  beauty 

and  a glory  all  its  own. 


— While  the  teacher 

passed  along  the  way, 
He  met  a group  of  girls; 
and  noisily,  unmaidenly, 
they  chattered 

on  the  street. 

By  laughter  loud  and  noisy  talk 
was  jarred  his  sense 

of  womanhood 

— Of  delicacy  and  refinement 

of  true  womanhood. 
What  to  him  was  there 
in  them  attractive 

saving  their— humanity? 
What  to  them,  he  wondered, 

was  their  life! 
Was  it  some  puzzle  strange 
— one  that  they 
questioned  not 
nor  understood? 
But  even  in  their  chatter 
found  he  answer 
to  his  questioning: 
Among  them  there  was  one 

of  light  and  springy  step 
Whose  very  presence 

was  a cheer  to  others. 
She  had  pretty  face 

and  graceful  bearing. 
And  her  air  was  self-reliant 
as  of  one  on  none  dependent. 
Aye,  a self-supporting  woman 
was  this  girl 
— all  that  was  she 
and  more; 


At  home  she  had 

an  ailing  mother, 
Bed-confined 

the  whole  year  through, 
And  this  young  girl 

was  home  provider. 
And  the  only  one 

for  all! 

Leaving  baby  at  the  nursery 

in  the  daytime. 
She  the  whole  day  long 

would  toil  outside; 
Her  slender  earnings 

were  the  pittance 
That  had  kept  them, 

fed  them,  clothed  them. 
Often  had  she  toiled 

till  midnight. 

And  at  five  o’clock 

in  morning 
She  had  risen 

that  her  mother 
Might  have  comforts 

for  the  day. 

Tsor  complained 

tliis  gentle  maiden 

of  her  lot  in  life; 

Tso  self-pity 

cast  its  sliadow 

on  her  l)uoyant  spirit. 
All  the  longings  of  h(‘r  soul 

for  bright  things 
and  the  beautiful, 
All  higher  needs 

of  pl(‘ading  lu'art. 


Beneath  the  heavy 

iron  heel  of  circumstance 
were  these  crushed  out; 
But  silent  was  the  girl 

and  uncomplaining. 

Again  the  teacher  was  in  Class, 
and  spoke  of  what  he  saw 
among  the  lowly: 

‘‘Not  in  battle, 

to  the  drum-beat, 

is  all  human  striving; 
Not  in  crowds,  for  only  glory, 

find  we  all  the  heroes; 
Nor  is  man  the  only  hero; 
in  the  mother 
and  the  daughter 

is  the  fire  heroic  often. 
And  ’tis  greater, 

aye,  and  grander. 

When  ’tis  silent 

and  pathetic. 

In  these  heroines 

inglorious 
Whose  exploits 

are  not  sung. 

Much  we  hear 

of  women  sheltered 
And  by  manly  arms 

protected; 

‘Save  her,’  they  oft  tell  us; 

‘Let  us  save  her 
From  the  wintry  blasts 
of  toiling 

— for  her  bread; 


All  too  fragile  she, 

for  coping 

In  the  world  outside 

with  man.’ 

So  it  is  to  please  this  fancy, 

— for  this  sentimeno  ideal— 
Men  would  shut  her  out 
from  working 
—for  her  bread! 

But  it  seemeth  not  in  keeping 
with  our  progress 

and  her  need. 

To  say  ‘Nay’ 

to  her  own  toiling 

for  her  need  of  bread. 
Her  need  for  self 

or  for  the  others 

that  on  her  may  be 
dependent! 

Widened  be  her  range, 

not  narrowed; 
Larger  be  her  field 

for  toiling. 

If  of  choice 

more  scope  it  give  her 
to  provide  herself 
with  bread. 

Is  she  handicapped 

by  Nature 

All  too  little 

for  our  liking. 

That,  as  men, 

we  would  make  harder 
All  the  struggling 

she  must  do. 


And  from  which 

we  would  not  save  her, 
Or  in  which 

we  do  but  hinder? 

Must  we  add 

to  those  of  Nature 

other  burdens  for 

her  bearing 

That  are  heavy 

and  more  heavy; 

And  deny  her  right  of  having 
more  of  place  and  hope, 
and  chances; 

Less  of  comfort 

than  her  need  is, 

less  than  is  her  right 

to  claim; 

Less  than  has 

the  gentle  woman 

thought  of  asking 

of  the  world? 

Shall  we, 

by  our  force  and  power, 
all  she  asketh 
still  deny  her? 
Nay,  my  brothers, 

let  us  hasten, 

and  concede  to  her 

(in  reason) 

Even  more  than  she  desireth 
in  her  modest  sense  of  need. 
Even  more  than  she  doth  ask  us 
in  her  modest  sense  of  right! 
Id  the  lives  of  women, 

is  the  truest  heroism. 


35 


What  we  call,  in  men,  heroic 
oft  is  noisy,  loud,  obtrusive, 
claiming  for  itself 
all  praise; 

But,  in  woman, 

’tis  unconscious, 

though  sublime 

and  all  pathetic; 
And  no  thought  of  it  has  she, 

whose  habit  is  to  drift. 
When  one  braver,  of  her  sex, 

moves  out  alone. 
Then  only  has  she  thought 
of  merit  in  her  sacrifice 

and  daily  toil. 
Man  it  is  forever  ready 
to  accept  that  sacrifice; 

Ills  name  for  it  is  duty 

— not  a thing  for  praise 
or  wonder! 

Yet  there  is 

in  lives  of  mothers. 

More  tlian  in  the 

lives  of  men, 

true  heroism! 

C)  our  mothers! 

()  our  mothers! 

Only  when  the  clod 

has  fallen 

On  that  face  the  fain'st, 

sweetest. 

Do  w(*  know 

t he  riilku*  moaning 
or  tlie  subjiigat  ion  rare* 

of  self— that  s(‘ir 
angeli(d 


O our  mothers! 

God  forgive  us! 

God  forgive 

the  sons  of  men 
For  their  sins 

against  the  mothers 

— for  ingratitude, 
neglect. 

Would  I had 

a devil’s  mirror— 

One  wherein  each  man 

might  see 

All  his  weakness 
and  his  meanness, 

his  conceit  and  selfish  sin! 
For  the  sake  of  one  so  lovely, 

one  so  tender  and  so  true. 
He  would  ever  yield  to  woman 
all  she  asks 

— aye,  grant  her  more. 
All  for  sake  of  her 

who  bore  him. 

All  for  her — the  woman 

—Mother. 
—She  who  is  (among  all  heroes) 
of  God’s  heroines 

the  Queen. 

Now,  again,  the  picture  faded, 
and  again  I saw 

the  Highway, 

And  t hat  throng  forever  moving 
— always  moving  on. 
Again  1 heard  the  music 

— music  low  and  weird 

and  plaintive — 


Music  of  that  sad  Kefrain 
that  had  burdened  me 

before. 

And  I said: 

“Is  Life  the  meaning 
of  this  picture 

strange  and  vivid, 

Of  this  throng — this  panorama 
never  ceasing  in  its  moving 
in  the  Highway — all  along? 

But,  it  seemed  that, 

if  a journey. 

Life  was  more 

(though  often  less); 
’T  was  a Eace 

and ’t  was  a Battle, 
And  in  every  Eace  and  Battle, 
woman  had  a share 
with  man. 

Yes,  I saw  that  in  the  Battle 
—even  there 

she  must  combat. 
And  not  only  with  the  woman 
was  her  striving, 
but  with  man! 

She  had  there 

a need  to  combat 
For  the  rights  of  man 

and  woman 

— For  the  rights  of  self 
and  others! 

And  I saw  that  in  the  Eaces 

she  competed. 

And  the  prizes 

of  the  Life-Course 


Were  not  hers 

except  she  won  them 
— she  herself! 

I saw  that  when  she  struggled 
for  her  need 
— (For  her  very  bread, 

it  might  be). 

When  she  battled 

for  her  rights 
—(For  her  very  life, 

it  might  be). 
She  was  weaker  in  her  make-up, 
in  her  armor,  her  equipment, 
than  her  brother. 
Then  I saw  that  in  her  striving 
in  the  Eaces 
She  was  handicapped  by  Nature 
and  by  custom 

— Even  more  by  art  and  fashion 
than  by  Nature! 
Then  I wondered 

of  the  fairness 
—What  the  purpose 

and  the  meaning 
Of  the  struggling 

and  the  striving. 
Of  the  battling  and  competing 
being  harder  for  the  woman 
than  for  man! 

Although  I found  no  answer, 
came  the  thought 
that  seemed  all  plain: 
Nature’s  word 

is  not  our  saying. 
And  we  may  not  change 

the  law; 


37 


It  must  be 

as  Nature  wills  it 
—And  we  say 

that  there  is  in  it 
Purpose  good 

and  some  large  meaning; 
But  no  man 

for  sake  of  fashion, 

Art  or  custom, 

or  his  pleasure. 

Has  fair  right 

to  weaken  woman. 

Handicap  or  halt 

her  moving. 

Make  her  striving,  struggling, 
harder. 

Make  her  tears  more  hot, 

more  bitter. 

Make  her  path  more  thorns 

than  roses. 

Make  her  suffer 

his  unwisdom. 

Sacrifice  her  for  his  pleasure 

or  his  gain! 

Once  more  the  farm-house 
came  in  view 
And  there  was  sign 

of  many  guests 
and  joyous  greetings. 
All  were  there 

— the  sons  and  daughters 
Relatives 

and  fri(‘nds  invit(‘d. 
'J'liis  the  day  that  sln^ 

— who  to  her  heart 


Had  welcomed  happy  lover 

— she  herself  had  named 
'To  say  ‘‘Good  Bye” 

to  her  old  home 

to  her  old  world. 
And  enter  one  all  new 

and  strange 
But  full  of  promise 

of  a life  of  bliss. 

Now  I saw  that  she 

who  of  her  will 

became  a wife 
Was  of  them  all 

the  eldest 
And  her  name 

was— Rachel. 

And  I saw 

that  of  her  sisters 
One  there  was  whose  name 

was — Yashti. 
And  I saw  that  she 

who  stood  beside  the  bride 
as  maid 

Was  sister  of  the  bridegroom 

and  her  name  was— Edith. 

Of  the  boys, 

the  one  who  stayed  at  home 
was  John; 

One,  who  had  liking  for  the  city 
greater  than  liis  love 
for  country  homestead 

-he  was  Albert. 
Hut  to  me  the  strangest 

of  all  else  was  this; 


That  she  who  had  been 
leader  of  the  girls 
who  held  the  Scroll 

was— Vashti; 

And  that  Euth,  her  sister, 
was  of  those  who  aided  her 
— one  of  her  following. 
Now  I was  glad 

when  I saw  Yashti, 

For  to  me  was  Yashti  pleasing 
more  than  all  the  others, 
More  than  any  I had  seen 

before  in  all  my  days! 
On  second  thought ’t  is  this 

and  this  alone 
That  was  the  strangest  far 
of  all  that  I had  seen 

this  night 

— ’Tis  this, 

that  I thought  Yashti 

of  them  all  the  best! 
Yet,  why  so  strange? 

For  she  was  beautiful 

of  soul  and  face; 
And  she  was  one 

who  could  be  brave, 
who  could  be  true; 
One  who  could  love  another 

well  and  dearly; 
Yet  who  never  would  forget 

herself 

(And  this  were  well, 
for  she  herself  was 

worthy  of  remembrance 
by  all  others 

—and  herself). 


Now  they  stood,  and  grouped 

in  pretty  fashion; 
Of  them  all  the  bride 

the  center. 

He  who  wedded  her 

was  nearest, 
And  he  held  her  hand 

in  his. 

Then  when  the  man  of  God 

was  ready  to  pronounce 
The  words 

to  bind  what  man 

may  put  asunder 
never. 

He— the  bridegroom — 

to  the  maiden  sang: 

0 maiden  fair j 

my  love  for  thee 
Is  like  the  surge 

of  swelling  sea, 

Nor  time  nor  tide 

more  changeless  he 
Than  is  my  love,  fair  maid, 

for  thee, 

O maiden  fair! 

Then  all  the  younger  men 

and  maidens  sang. 
As  if  in  glad 

refrain: 

Than  is  his  love, 

fair  maid,  to  thee, 

0 maiden  fair! 

Again  he  sang— the  lover— 
and  they  all  responding 


O maiden  fair, 

1 come  to  thee 
With  heart  unfettered, 

glad  and  free, 

To  take  thy  hand 

and  ask  of  thee 
Thy  precious  maiden  love 

for  me, 

O maiden  fair! 

O maiden  fair, 

though  it  may  he 
Kor  wealth  nor  fame 
I offer  thee. 

Full  measure 

of  felicity 

My  hearVs  deep  love 

doth  promise  thee, 

0 maiden  fair! 

Then  sang  the  maidens 

standing  near: 

O maiden  fair, 

we  wish  for  thee, 

A life  of  joy 

—from  sorrow  free. 
That  all  thy  days 

unclouded  he — 

This  is  our  wish,  sweet  maid, 
for  thee, 

0 maiden  fair! 

Tiien,  wliile  the  pastor 

spok(‘,  th(i  words  of  ])iriding 
(Si)oko  in  1 (‘11(1(0’  voie(‘, 
as  OIK*  solicit  oils 

for  all  t lie  rutiir(‘ 

or  a cliild  his  own), 


The  lover  sang,  alone: 

0 maiden  fair, 

I give  to  thee 
This  emblem 

of  Eternity 
A7id  pledge  for  aye 

fidelity 

To  thee,  O maiden  fair, 

to  thee, 

O maiden  fair! 

O maide^i  fair! 

To  thee,  my  own. 

My  wife,  to  thee 

1 pledge  life-long 

fidelity, 

O woman  fair,  my  wife, 

to  thee, 

0 woman  fair! 

And  then  the  others  sang, 
while  he,  now  husband, 
took  the  kiss — his  own: 
To  thee,  0 woman  fair, 

to  thee, 

His  pledge 

life-long  fidelity, 

0 woman  fair,  and  wife, 
to  thee. 

Fidelity  life-long 

to  thee, 

()  woman  fair,  and  wife, 
to  thee, 

()  iroman  fair! 

Ihit,  ore  again  T sought 
one  other  glance  at  Vashti, 
Vashti  fair— so  fair  tome, 


The  picture  faded 

and  I felt  like  one  alone 

and  sorrowful; 

And  all  the  more 

when  to  my  ear  came  back 
that  same  sweet, 
sad  Refrain. 

Again  I was  in  Class 

— a woman  was  the  teacher: 
“Thoughts  are  things,” 

she  said, 

“A  creation  of  your  spirit 

is  your  thought. 
’Tis  force  and  power 
—is  thought 

and  Tis  eternal. 
Of  yourself  your  thouglit 

is  part; 

And  what  you  think  to-day  . 

is  your  new  self. 
You  may  wonder 

but ’t  is:  true 
That  what  we  wear 

—our  very  clothes— 
Absorb  our  thought 

—our  very  thought. 

Now  if  my  cast-off  thought 

of  time  gone  by 
Has  been  of  anger, 

irritation  or  unrest. 

My  old-time  clothes 
my  vicious  thought  absorbed, 
And  I that  thought 

may  re-absorb. 

41 


Let  men  not  seek  companionship 
with  their  dead  selves; 

Far  better  ‘tis 

to  seek  deliv’rance 

from  the  body 

of  our  death. 

In  all  her  moods 

is  Nature  prodigal. 

In  casting  off  the  old, 

the  lifeless; 

— In  bestowal  on  her  creatures 
of  the  fulness  of  new  life: 
The  horns  of  deer  drop  off; 

the  serpent  skins  drop  off; 
The  hairs  of  beast, 

the  feathers  of  the  bird 

drop  off: 

All  fresh  and  new 
as  manna 

from  the  hand  of  God 
Are  plumages  and  downy  furs 

and  tints  of  flower. 
Lilies  of  the  field  toil  not, 

nor  do  they  spin. 
Yet  are  arrayed 

in  beauty. 

Shall  man  alone  be  unadorned, 
shall  he  alone 

Be  undelivered 

(in  due  time  and  season) 
From  the  old,  dead  body 

of  his  older  self? 
Nature  will  not  wear 

old  clothes  worn  out; 
Her  birds  build  new  their  nests, 
her  flowers  renew  their  youth; 


Max.  who  may  toil  and  spin, 
and  fashion  wonders 
rare  and  beautiful, 
Has  hint  from  lower  life 

how  he  may  be  arrayed 
In  all  the  glory 

of  his  power  creative. 
Then,  shall  man 

drag  through  his  life 
Down-loaded  with  the  weight 
of  years  cast  off? 
Shall  man  load  down  himself 

with  garb  of  poverty, 
Of  rags  of  thought 

—of  old,  dead  life? 
^ay,  poverty  is  not  religion, 

nor  monotony  a virtue; 
If  one  teaches  aiiglit  so  ill 

it  is  not  TNature; 
He  who  clothed  the  lily 

gave  thee  power 

to  clothe  thyself: 
The  color  of  the  lily 

is  expression  of  its  life; 
The  dr(;ss  of  thine 

ex[)ression  is  (in  i)art) 

of  thine  own  larger  life 
—thy  spirit. 

Youth  is  newness 

in  the  s))irit  and  in  body; 
Youth  is  freshness,  strength 

and  growth; 

Youth  is  joyous,  playful, 
and  it  revels 

in  I he  joys  of  heall  li, 
of  hope,  of  IJf(‘. 


Youth  has  love  of  dress, 

of  color,  music, 
beauty,  pleasure, 
And  it  casteth  out  all  fears, 

all  doubt. 

And  this  is  well 

— ’t is  intuition 

all  unconscious. 
One  may  come  to  have 

no  love  for  dress, 

May  come  to  take  no  pride, 

no  pleasure,  in  adornment. 
One  may  come  to  have 

no  joy  in  life. 

And  no  delight 

in  ways  of  youth 
—in  living. 

One  may  say 

that  youth  has  passed, 
With  all  its  joys, 

its  hopes,  its  pleasures, 
— gone  forever. 
One  may  set  his  face 

out  towards  the  setting  sun 
And  think  of  Life 

as  sombre,  sad. 
Of  youtli  as  fleeting, 

and  to  end  in  shadow 

— cheerless,  hopeless. 
When ’t  is  come  to  this, 

O man, 

’Tis  sign  of  waning, 
i and  thou  art  thyself 
I inviting— death! 

I 1 f thou  lose  thy  ho])e, 

thy  faith. 


If  thou  turn  tliy  face 

unto  the  wall, 

It  will  mean  decay 

and  death. 

Such  is  not  the  choosing 

of  tlie  better  way; 
Tliou  rnay'st  hold  thy  youth 
and  challenge  all  advancing 
of  the  years. 

Will  within  thyself  to  rise 
and  thou  shalt  upward  move 
and  forward. 

Now  as  to  color: 

Choose  not  black 

for  robing; 

It  is  badge  of  liopelessness 

of  ending — death. 
Aye,  choose  thee  colors 

that  have  warmth  and  light. 
For  emblem, 

if  it  be  for  Life 
(Or  that  thou  callest  death), 

choose  naught  but  white. 
For  thou  indeed  hast  choice. 

If  so  it  be  thy  will 
to  choose. 

And  more,  if  so  it  be 

thy  Spirit  willeth, 

Thou  may’st  have  thy  body 

fitly  clothed. 

Then  will  to  have  the  right, 

the  best. 

Aye,  will,  and  it  shall  come 

to  thee. 

Do  thou  demand  it 

in  thy  mind  and  strongly; 


It  will  come  to  thee 

through  asking. 
It  will  come  to  thee 


by  seeking, 

Or  by  knocking 

at  the  opening  door, 

and  iinding. 

'Tisthelaw 

that  unto  him  tliat  halli 

shall  more  be  given; 
I>ut  if  one  hath  not, 

from  him  shall  taken  be 

that  which  he  hath. 
Hold  fast  thine  own, 

and  thou  shalt  have 

and  hold. 

So  think  it  not 

of  little  care, 

the  body; 

Thou  may’st  even  love  it 

as  the  dwelling 

of  the  Soul. 
Think  of  it  as  temple 
for  the  spirit 

in  it  dwelling. 
Shall  it  be  neglected? 

Rather  shall  it  be 
kept  beautiful 

and  fitly  clothed. 
But  only  as  thy  soul  within 
is  beautiful 

will  thy  body  be. 
Only  will  thy  body 

be  a fitting  temple 

when  ’tis  fitly  kept 
and  robed. 


Only  as  thou  lovest  life 

shall  life  be  thine, 

or  stay  with  thee; 
Therefore,  be  not  careless, 
hopeless, 

in  thy  mind; 

For  that  were  courting  death, 

’t  were  dying. 
Be  not  even  slovenly 

in  dress, 

For  that  itself 

is  sign  of  dying, 

not  of  Life.” 

Then  she  paused, 

and,  after,  said: 

^‘Now  1 would  tell  thee 

something  more  of  dress. 
Note  the  dress 

of  men  you  meet, — 
One  may  be  dressed 

in  manner  foppish; 
Everything  he  wears 

proclaims  aloud,  and  noisily, 
(as  from  the  house-top) 
That  with  him 

the  all  in  all 

is  dress; 

It  is  his  life, 

i1  is  w it  h him, 

1 Ik*  (Mid  and  piiriiose  all 

(O’  life. 

( )iie  is  (1  rcssed 

in  sloudiy  manner; 

What  he  w('ars 

hcl (>l\(ms  chaiKM'. 

!>(•  it  t his,  or  t hat . (»!•  ot  h(*r. 

— naught  it  mat  t ms; 

I 


Come,  or  go, 

Tis  wind,  or  weather; 
—This  his  thinking 

as  to  dress 

—It  may  be, 

as  to  his  life  the  same. 
One  must  say 

that  life  and  purpose 
are  not  dress; 

But  the  one  of  slouchy  habit 

questions,  by  his  dress; 
Is  there  purpose, 

is  there  even  life, 

— is  it  not  all  chance; 
Is  there  plan  or  meaning 

in  it  all? 

If  there  be  in  Life  a purpose; 
if  there  be  in  Life 

a meaning; 

It  were  seemly 

that  one  s dress 
Should  speak  of  order, 

purpose,  fitness. 

— Again,  we  see 

one  dressed  not  slouchy, 

but  all  careless; 
And  the  manner  of  his  wearing, 
more  than  what  he  wears, 
betokens  mental  habit. 
Life  1 oo  piM’jinseful  to  him 
(if  seemt'l  h) 

foi‘  much  t hought 

of  dress; 

‘'rime  is  ing, 

woi'k  is  pn'sslng, 

l(‘f  ns  to  our  tasks  away. 


Let  it  be  for  dawdlers, 

idlers, 

Let  it  be  for  men 

(or  women) 

Having  neither  work 

nor  knowledge, 
Having  little  care 

for  either; 

—Let  it  be  for  these 

to  dress, 

Not  for  him  of  busy  brain, 
whose  heart  and  hands 

are  full; 

Not  for  him  whose  life  is  short 
— too  short  for  all  his  need!’ 
Thus  he  sings, 

in  gloomy  measure,  * 
Sings  as  if  he  knew 

the  meaning, 

— Knew  how  short,  how  long 

his  life, 

Knew  the  point 

of  ending! 

High  his  motive, 

large  his  purpose. 
We  may  say  of  him 

who  reasons  thus  of  dress 

and  of  our  life; 

But  he  faileth 

when  he  thinketh 
That  our  life 

hath  naught  of  living 

in  the  ever  present; 
Naught  of  joy 

and  comfort,  pleasure, 

as  we  journey  on; 


That  our  present 

is  as  nothing 
To  some  purpose, 

or  some  doing. 

Of  some  time 

in  some  far  future! 
He  may  find 

some  counter  meaning 
in  the  saying 

of  the  Teacher: 
Take  no  thought 

of  the  to-morrow 
(Though  it  meaneth  not 
to  teach  us 
to  be  merry, 
eating,  drinking. 
Knowing  that  we  die 

to-morrow). 

Dress  as  one 

who  lives  to-day, 

to-morrow— ever; 
Lives  not  now  alone, 

to-morrow  dying; 
Lives  not  only 

when  to-morrow  cometh; 
But  now  lives, 

will  live  to-morrow, 

will  live  alway, 

live  forever. 
Dress  thou  for  the  hour, 


the  day. 

And  fitting  for  thy 

present  need. 

Make  thy  dress 

a part  (not  all) 

thy  purpose. 


45 


Dress  for  comfort, 

for  enjoyment; 

Dress  for  pleasure 

— for  thine  own 

and  others. 

Is  there  not  of  purpose, 

and  all  worthy, 

in  so  doing? 

]Vruch  it  seemeth  so  to  be 

to  me. 

—Let  thy  dress  be  suited 

to  thyself,  thy  person, 

To  thy  work  and  to  thy  need, 
and  mood. 

Let  it  be  thy  mood  alway 

that  dress  become  thee. 
That  it  be  adapted 

to  thy  personality. 

To  thy  position, 

and  the  place  thou  boldest. 


Nay,  to  thy  departure 

from  the  crowd 
Would st  thou  not  fix 

a limit? 

Yea,  thou  needest  not 

to  grovel  with  the  herd; 

Nor,  like  the  hermit, 

dwell  alone; 

Nor  even  with  the  wings 

fly  foolishly. 

Give  Fashion  place, 

but  not  control; 

Thyself  art  Fashion, 

if  thou  wilt;^ 

For  Fashion  is  the  whole, 

and  of  the  whole 
thou  art  some  part; 

So  thou  (in  measure) 

may’st  thyself  control 
the  fashion. 


What  of  Fashion? 

She  will  have 

her  saying; 

And,  within  the  limits, 

(bounds  of  reason,) 

'riioii  may’st  heed 

h(‘r  mandate; 

1 or  conspicuous 

t hou  d(*sir(‘st  not  to  1)(‘ 

— nor  liast  thou  ne(‘d. 
Lxrcpt  at  call  of  martyi’dom, 
(from  which  one  prays 

1 hat.  lie  b(‘  spar(‘d,) 
Wlio  would,  nr  need 

dely  t hat  iiiandal  e? 


Fashion  changeth? 

Aye,  and  thou; 

For  thou  art  ever  changing 

and  thyself  becoming  new; 
For  thou  Shalt  newer  be  to-day 
than  yesterday; 

And  surely  thou 

shalt  newer  be  to-day 
Than  was  of  yesterday 

some  other  man  or  woman, 
lie  was  of  the  i)ast 

— a past  now  gone 

and  dead. 

Ihit  thou  art  oT  the  ])resent, 
of  to-day 

- tlu'  living  present. 


Shall  the  whole  world 

change? 

—Shall  old  things  pass  away 

and  all  be  new, 
Save  that  alone  which  is  above, 
beyond  ali  other  things 
— save  man  himself 
or  woman? 

More,  shall  all  be  changed 
—save  that  pertaining 

to  the  woman  only? 
Shall  it  be  her  dress 
(and  it  alone) 

That  shall  be  fixed, 

unchangeable, 
—And  all  the  rest 

be  new? 

This  question  comes 

with  reason. 

For  there  are  whose  answer 

makes  it  fitting. 
This  my  answer: 

Of  the  rights  (though  few) 

of  woman,  in  the  past. 
One  right  was  hers  undoubted 
—hers  conceded; 

(Nay,  say  men, 

■t  was  more  than  right  of  hers 
— T was  weakness). 
It  was  right  to  change 

—the  weakness 

to  be  fickle. 
Cramped,  or  bounded, 

tied,  restricted. 

As  to  rights, 

or  ways  of  working; 


She  could  always 

changeful  be,  or  fickle, 
as  her  mood  had  need. 
Her  dress  could  be  chameleon 

as  her  fancy  pleased  her. 
Now  to  bound,  or  bind, 

her  fancy. 

Or  to  limit 

her  desire. 

One  thing  only 

was  there  ever. 
And  that  one  thing 

was  that  strange  thing 
Tliat  we  sometimes  call 

Queen  Fashion 
—She  whose  hat 

was  to  woman 

Stronger  far 

than  rhyme  or  reason 

(as  it  seemed)! 

Now,  if  Fashion, 

and  the  fancy 

of  the  woman. 

Call  for  change 

(and  change  more  striking 
than  before) 

Who  shall  hinder, 

who  deny  her 
That  which  was 

her  right  conceded 
— Hight  to  choose  or  change 

her  garment, 

Right  to  choose 

a way  of  robing 

to  her  liking? 
47 


Sa3^est  thou 

it  must  become  her, 

her  apparel? 

True,  we  answer, 

for  a fashion  unbecoming 
to  her  beauty 
—lovely  woman!— 

Is  a sin 

’gainst  man  and  Nature. 
(Yet,  it  is  a sin  that  woman 
hath  committed 

—often,  often; 

’T  was  her  Queen 
—the  Queen  called  Fashion 
who  compelled  this  sin, 

O woman!) 

But  when  man 

disliked  a fashion. 
Only  had  lie  right 

of  protest. 

And  ’twas  ever 

right  of  woman 
(Kiglit  conceded, 

as  1 see  it). 

To  mov'e  on, 

in  lin(‘  with  Fashion, 
Always  at  her  own 

sweet  will. 

Then  t In;  man 

had  ne(‘d  of  i)atience 
—pat  i(‘nc(‘  only 

lor  a whil(‘: 

Not  so  long 

till  to  his  liking 

she  would  conn* 
of  her  accord. 


Aye,  she  would  come, 

O charming  woman! 
For  she  loves  the  man 

— does  woman. 

And  of  her  own  will 

would  please  him. 
By  her  beauty, 

by  her  dress. 

But,  one  sayeth, 

lines  of  freedom 

for  the  woman 

are  laid  down; 

Wide  though  be 

her  range  of  choosing 
— how  to  robe 

her  form  divine. 
Yet  her  dress  must  be 

not  man’s  dress; 

She  must  stay 

within  the  lines 
Laid  dowm  by  custom, 

and  by  Nature  long  ago! 
True,  but  man 

may  be  in  error. 

If  he  draw  the  lines 

for  nvman, 

For  her  dress 

(or  for  aught  else). 
For  himself  he  had 

his  choosing. 

And  h(‘  chose 

to  suit  his  nec'd; 

( ii()S(‘  to  suit  liis  t ast  (‘. 

his  liking. 

Nor  had  woman 


4H 


aught  to  say! 


When  he  made  the  change 

that  woman 

Now  is  making 

for  herself, 

No  one  questioned  him 

the  choosing, 

No  one  said  him 

yea,  or  nay. 

Who  shall  say 

the  dress  is  fitting 
That  he  for  himself 

hath  chosen; 

— That  ’tis  modest,  proper, 

right? 

Petticoats 

were  once  his  wearing; 

’T  was  a change 

when  he  wore  leggings 
— When  he  doffed 

the  woman’s  gown! 
Who  shall  say 

it  were  not  better 
That  tlie  man 

still  wear  tliat  gown? 
Or  that  leggings 

are  for  woman 

not  more  modest 

than  for  man? 
Who  sliall  say  that  gowns 

are  modest, 

—Always  modest, 

— ever  modest 
— Ever  fitting, 

proper,  right; 

Be  they  for  the  man 

or  woman 


—For  their  duties, 

for  their  work; 

Or  for  their  forms 

as  Nature  made  them? 
That  they  trail 

through  mud  and  spittle. 
That  they  trip 

— are  cause  of  stumbling. 
That  they  blow 

beyond  controlling 
In  the  playful  wind 

(and  shocking), 

That  they  fit  not 

storm  and  weather, 
—These  are  faults 

mayhap  not  greatest 
In  this  dress, 

this  gown— the  skirt! 
For  the  drawing-room 

they’re  fitting, 
There  they  have  a charm 

their  own, 

(Aye,  better  there 

than  in  the  streets 

are  gowns;) 

But  if  for  riding, 

or  for  wheeling, 
—Who  would  welcome  them 

of  will? 

Is  then  man  by  Nature  ever 
forced  to  halt 
at  faulty  lines; 

And  his  progress 

toward  perfection 
to  be  stayed 

in  one  thing  only? 


49 


Is  he  always, 

tliroiigli  all  ages 
—Through  all  ages 

yet  unborn, 

In  one  thing 

(and  one  thing  only) 
to  be  stayed 
in  statu  quo? 

Is  the  costume 

of  tlie  human 
— Xot  of  man, 

but  of  the  woman— 

The  one  thing 

in  all  of  l^ature 

That  can  have 

no  aid  of  science. 

That  from  art 

or  from  invention 

May  not  have 

some  help  or  hint; 
lint  must  now, 

and  all  years  coming 
—Must  alone, 

of  all  tilings  needful. 

Slop  far  short 

of  nice  perfection? 
I'roin  what  law, 

divine  or  human, 
f'rom  what  law, 

r(‘V(‘al(‘d  or  writ! (m, 

1 t here  riil(‘ 

or  is  tli(‘r(‘  r(‘ason 
'riial  shall  say 

of  some  old  (Mist om, 

( )r  som«‘  pr  ael  ice, 

It  shall  be  forever  sacred 
from  all  change 

and  innovation, 
Though  the  need 

of  man  or  woman 

may  cry  out  in  agony 
for  change? 

If  the  men,  or  if  the  women, 
choose  to  make  such  law 
by  fiat. 

Let  them  make  it, 

not  for  others. 

But,  far  better,  for  themselves 
—themselves  alone. 
Let  them  not, 

in  mood  so  generous. 
Make  it  only 

for  the  others 

— Others  who  a law  would  be 

unto  themselves! 
Know  you  that  a higher  ruling 
governs  you  and  governs  me. 
Governs  man 

and  governs  woman. 
And  it  stronger  is  than  fiat, 
than  the  men  in  all  creation, 
or  the  women; 

And  no  age 

may  boast  of  iirogress 
Till  that  law  be  over  others 

—over  and  above; 

Now  t hat-  law 

which  is  the  higher, 
Which  should  be 

on  all  nuMi  binding. 

nr  pr(»(*(‘(*(| i n}^^  atid  all  wonuMi 


Is  the  Law  of  Liberty 

or  the  Perfect  Law. 
‘But  if  woman-— lovely  woman, 
choose  to  dress  like  man; 
—How  may  we  discern 

between  them 

— How— Oh!  how 

—know— them  —apart! 
Well  expressed, 

by  halting  question, 
is  your  horror 

at  the  thought; 
It  is  calamity  most  serious, 
and  its  coming  we  may  dread 
As  we  may  dread 

the  coming  winter. 
As  the  ague,  or  a fever, 

as  an  avalanche,  or  cyclone, 
epidemic,  or  a bore, 
and  the  toothache. 
As  we  dread  the  thing  it  is 

—a  revolution! 

Yes,  we  dread 

a thing  so  fearful. 
That  like  man 

shall  be  the  wmman. 
And,  (like  babes 

all  mixed  together,) 

all  identity  be  lost! 
But,  we  wonder, 

where  is  Nature 
that  she  idly 

stays  her  hand! 
Has  she  naught  to  say 

in  protest? 


Can  she  nothing  do  to  hinder 

this  calamity  so  dreadful? 

Where  is  Man  himself, 

we  wonder, 

Is  there  naught 

within  his  power, 
Such  calamity  of  evil 

to  forbid? 

Has  it  come  (or  is  it  coming), 
that  between 

the  man  and  woman 
There  is  naught, 

(nor  will  be  ever,) 

—naught  to  know 
the  two  apart; 

Naught  that  is 

of  Nature’s  doing. 
Naught  that  is  not 

artificial, 

—Nothing  save  some  tag^ 

or  covering 
—Save  some  marking, 

or  the  dress? 

Nay,  I know 

we  are  too  fearful 

of  her  resource, 

of  her  power; 

And,  until  they 

be  exhausted 
—All  the  resources 

of  Nature- 
Needless  will  be 

our  alarm. 

I Much  I fear,  that  half  the  evil 
' is  not  that  the  little  woman 


Is  too  much— too  much 

like  man; 

But  that  man, 

more  than  he  might  be, 
More  than  he  has  been 

of  old  time, 

Is  himself,  too  much 

— like  woman! 

Once  there  was 

a badge  of  manhood 
-Nature-given,  striking, 

flowing; 

’T  was  man’s  pride, 

his  strength,  his  marking. 
As  a man  among  all  men, 

a man  among  all  women. 

When  he  took  an  oath 

most  solemn. 
Always  swore  he 

by  this  badge. 

And  indignity  was  greater 
to  this  badge  than  to  all  else. 
For  this  badge 

lias  woman  ever 

had  some  liking 

(more  or  less) 
And  the  woman  oft  admires  it, 
— ev(‘n  lov(‘S  it, 

(as  her  own). 
Ihil  her  liking,  and  h(‘r  loving, 
is  in  se(‘ing  it- 

■in  I f !(<('('; 

1 1 would  nil  her  soul 

wit  h horror, 

H it  grew 

(»n  her  (►wn  lae(‘! 


It  may  nestle  there 

(a  season), 

She  may  claim  it 

as  her  own. 

But  to  have  this  badge 

by  growing, 

And  to  be  enforced 

to  wear  it 

—This  would  be 

her  pet  aversion! 

In  this  realm 

— this  realm  his  own, 

Man  has  always  from  intrusion 
by  all  women 

been  secure; 

And  the  future  has  no  danger 
in  this  right 

—man’s  right  alone, 

Woman  sweet 

no  heard  is  growing! 

— She  for  it  has  shown 

no  liking; 

Yet  has  man 

by  constant  shaving, 
Sought  to  lose  his  jiride, 

his  birthright; 
Sought  to  rob  liimselt 
(the  master) 
of  this  badge 

of  his  distinction; 
Sold  it  for  some 

mess  of  pot  tage 

--pot t ag('  of  some 

passing  fancy; 
Lost  it  to  SOUK'  fi’(‘ak 

of  I'asliion; 


— That  he  miglit 

(in  shameless  habit) 
Have  a face  all  smooth 

like  woman’s! 

Nor  has  woman 

e’er  protested; 

Though  it  were 

well  in  her  right, 

To  object  to  man’s  intrusion 

on  her  own  domain, 
Her  domain 

by  right  of  Nature! 

If  unforced, 

and  for  no  reason, 

(For  no  reason 

that  we  know,) 

Man  his  badge 

has  thus  discarded, 
’Tis  his  doing, 

and  his  only, 

’T  was  no  fault 

of  lovely  woman 
If  man  lack  some  mark 

of  Nature, 

If  he  doff  some  trait 

she  gave  him. 

And  there  be  no  sign 

to  show  him 

To  be  man 

(and  not  a woman); 

’Tis  his  right  a tag  to  carry 

that  may  save  him 

from  the  hardship, 
From  the  ridicule,  or  folly, 

misery,  contempt, 

(or  shaming,) 


Of  his  being  sometimes  taken 
for  a— woman! 

And  we  women 

all  are  willing 
That  he  have  one 

— one  to  suit  his  whim, 

or  fancy. 

Let  it  be  a string,  or  garment, 
or  a color,  all  his  own; 
Let  him  have 

an  ear  or  nose  ring, 

Or  a cape,  or  cloak,  or  knee-cap, 
or  a baby’s  rattle. 

His  the  choice 

and  his  the  comfort. 
Give  the  boy 

his  needed  pleasure. 
—If  he  cannot 

make  his  hair  grow 
Where,  in  ages  past, 

it  grew. 

When  the  man 

in  pride  and  power 
By  his  beard 

did  all  his  swearing, 
(And  the  man,  in  all  the  ages 
did  the  swearing 
for  the  race,) 


He,  perhaps, 

may  grow  still  balder^ 
And  by  all  his  hair 

off-shaving, 

So  unlike  be 

to  the  woman 
That  we’ll  know 

when  we  shall  see 


Her  Crown  of  Glory 

on  her  head, 

— That  we'll  know 

by  all  things  lovely 
—lovely  and  of 

good  report. 

That  she  is  a woman  only 

—nothiruj  like  a man  at  all! 
Then  vre’ll  know 

wdiene'er  a being 
With  no  glory  crown  at  all 
comes  within  the  range 

of  vision, 

That  a man  it  is 

— not  woman, 

Or  a thing, 

for  lack  of  wording 
—Lack  of  any  better  naming, 

we  may  call— a man! 

It  were  well, 

so  say  we  ever, 

That  between  the  man 

and  woman 
There  shall  be  a range 

of  difference 

As  by  Nature 

’t  was  intended; 

I hit,  we  ask, 

in  honest  question, 

Is  it  not  tlie  will  of  Nature 
1 hat  this  dilfercmce 
be  in  2)cmm 
— not  in  dre.s.s/ 

If  tlie  range  be  all  too  narrow 
for  t h(‘  n(‘(‘d  of  man 
or  w(nnan, 


Can  it  be  because  of  woman 
having  made  advance 

inhuman, 

—Far  beyond  the  lesser  progress 
made  by  man? 

Has  the  inconsiderate  woman 
so  been  narrowing 

between  them 

The  wide  range 

erstwhile  existing 
That  his  manhood’s  pride 

is  hurt? 

If  this  be  the  evil  pending, 
what  the  cure 

— in  what  the  ending? 
Shall  we  stay 

the  woman’s  progress 
—stay  it  short  of  her  desire. 
That  the  man 

may  stop  advancing 
—Stop  far  short 

of  his  own  power? 

Nay,  a better  way  is  open 

— one  more  seemly, 

fair  and  just; 

Let  them  both 

— the  man  and  woman— 
Have  free  course 

—full  right  of  moving; 
Let  them  each  and  both 

make  progress, 
Full  within  their  powers 

and  need. 

Let  no  need  of  one  alone, 

(and  far  moia' 
no  ne(‘d  imagined,) 


Halt  tlie  progress 

of  the  other. 

What  if  in  the  movement 

onward 

Toward  the  summit 

of  desire, 

Woman  shall  make  progress 
rapid, 

And  between  herself 

and  brother, 
Lessen  the  wide  range, 

and  make  it  of  the  past! 

Be  it  so, 

if  man's  ambition 
Hath  made  failure 

in  his  moving. 

By  his  lesser  progress  making, 
stopping  short 
of  his  own  powers. 
Better  far  than  holding  woman 
back  within  her  powers 

and  need, 

Is  to  man  the  stimulation 

of  her  closer  following. 
Even  better  that  to  woman 
right  be  given 
To  make  progress 

as  she  liketh, 
Than  that  she  be  checked 

and  hampered 
In  the  hope  of  good  to  man 

from  her  own  sacriiice 

of  self. 

Now,  the  teacher 

who  so  well  (I  thought) 

had  spoken  for  her  sex. 


In  championship 

of  right  to  dress  at  will, 
Of  right  to 

be  a law  unto  themselves, 
Of  right  to  liberty, 

the  perfect  law  for  all. 

—Now  this  teacher 
and  her  Class 

passed  out  from  view. 

In  place  I saw 

a stage  and  players, 

and  the  play  was  comedy. 
Now  in  review  there  passed 
before  mine  eyes 

a long  procession. 

As  of  people  who  had  lived 

in  ages  gone, 
And  who  were  wearing 
costumes  of  their  day. 

They  who  wore 

the  newer  costumes 
Of  the  days 

in  which  they  lived, 
Would  find  the  fashions 
of  the  older  days 
grotesque  and  strange. 
And  these,  in  turn, 

their  day  would  pass. 

And  those  of  later  day 

would  find  their  dress 
As  odd  and  strange 

as  was  the  other! 
In  her  royal  robes, 
upon  a throne, 

there  sat  one  like  a queen; 


55 


And  she  by  all 

was  called  a queen 

her  name, Queen  Fashion. 
All  who  passed 

in  turn  before  her 

she  would  closely  scan, 
And  she  would  smile 

on  them  who  pleased  her, 
And  on  others 

she  would  frown. 
There  was  something 

in  her  smile 
That  caused  a thrill 
of  happiness 
in  those  who  won  it; 

But  her  frown,  it  seemed, 

made  sorrowful  all  hearts 
Far  more  than  her  rare  smile 

made  glad. 

And  Fashion 

was  a tickle  queen, 

For  she  would  frown  to-day 
on  something  she  erstwhile 
liad  smiled  upon, 
And  smile  on  wliat  erstwhile 

she  frowned  upon! 

Now,  all,  or  in-arly  all, 

of  nnai  and  women 
( nioiM*  1 li(‘  women) 
Were  the  willing  slaves 

of  Fashion; 
And  to  win  her  smile, 

(so  sw(‘et  it  was,) 

( )!•  miss  her  frown, 

(a  frown  s(‘V(‘rc  and  hurting,) 


These  her  subjects 

made  all  willing  sacrifice. 
Some  there  were  (it  seemed) 
who  had  no  other  purpose, 
P'ound  in  life 

no  other  pleasure, 

Than  the  happiness 

of  winning 
From  their  Queen 

her  sunny  smile 
— Her  frown  avoiding 

(but  they  were  the  few). 
Only  glimpses  had  I 
of  the  scenes 
(as  of  a play  in  progress). 
At  the  first,  the  women 

dressed  in  roomy  skirts; 
xVnd  when  they  danced 

they  were  as  tops  inverted. 
Gliding,  spinning, 

o’er  the  surface  of  the  floor. 
All  outspread  and  flaring, 

was  the  bottom  of  the  skirt. 
As  if  a hoop,  or  wheel, 
were  hidden 

in  Ihe  lower,  nether  folds, 
Environing  the  dress  within 
—the  dress  within 
and  wearer. 
Came  tliere  then  upon  the  scene 
first  one,  and  then  another. 
Having  dolled  the  roomy  skirts, 
and  donned 

for  other  robing, 
I )r('ss  all  clinging 

to  their  forms 


— Their  forms  of  beauty 

closely  clinging. 
Fashion  frowned 

on  these  new-comers. 

Then  the  others, 

(who  were  sweeping 
fuller  circles 

on  the  floor,) 

Looked  askance 

and  showed  displeasure, 
Crying,  ‘Shame, 

’tis  so  immodest!’ 

But  I saw 

that  time  made  smaller 
these  diameters  of  base; 
And  to  have  them  even  smaller, 
all  the  hoops 

were  dropped  at  last! 

Much  the  change 

was  to  my  liking. 

For  it  seemed 

(in  my  own  thinking) 

More  than  clinging  dress 
of  woman 

Did  the  bell-shaped  skirt 
of  Fashion 
mar  her  form 

of  beauty. 

Then  there  came 

a talk  of  changing 
Back  to  “crinoline” 

(they  called  it). 

For  the  queen  was  prone 
to  frowning 

On  this  pleasing  dress  of  woman 
(pleasing,  as  it  was  tome). 

57 


Then  there  came 

who  braved  the  frowning. 
And  refused  to  welcome 

changing, 

These,  by  ridicule  and  satire, 
led  the  Queen  to  frown  upon  it 
— on  the  crinoline  at  last! 
There  were  jokes  and  jibes 

in  plenty. 

There  was  laughter,  jeering, 

singing, 

Till  the  frown  of  Fashion 

ended 

All  the  fear 

of  coming  harm. 

Of  the  Songs 

that  most  did  please  me. 
Was  this  one 

that  follows: 

Dear  Lady  Crinoline^ 

as  in  a dream 
I see  thee  move  along 

the  polished  floor 
With  grace  and  beauty 
in  everg  step, 

As  once — our  fathers  say — 
you  did  of  yore. 

I count  the  rows  of  flounces 
on  your  shirt, 
From  one  to  twenty-one, 
each  wider  grown 
Than  that  above 

— like  ripples  on  a pool 
When  agitated 

by  a pebble  throivn. 


You  had,  I know, 

a wealth  of  witchery, 

But  men  retreated 

as  you  forward  stepped. 
For  there  was  that  about  you 
that  forbade 
Familiar  greet 
—so  they  their  distance  kept. 
And  yet  1 icould  not 

call  you  back  again 
Through  these  dim  years, 
though  sweet  H would  be 
I ween; 

1 woukl  not  tempt  you 

tread  our  sphere  again, 

A ll-filling,  widening, 

spinning  Lady  Crinoline. 

Now  in  this  Comedy  I saw 

that  men  were  riding 

on  a wheel; 

(I)Ut  otlier  pattern  was  it 
than  tlie  wheels 

whereon  the  girls 

had  ridden 

Wlien  they  carried 

in  their  hands 

the  Scroll). 

Wide  and  high 

t he  forward  wheel 

and  small  the  other; 
And  it.  secmicd 

that  wondrous  skill 

was  n(‘(‘d(‘d 
Lest  tlH‘  wh(‘(  h*r  fall, 

and  from  a di/./.y  licighl 

of  daiig(‘i  ! 


And  I saw  that, 
finding  danger  in  the  skirting 
of  the  leggings, 
Some  were  dressed 

in  older  fashion, 
Where  the  leggings 

always  ended  at  the  knees. 
And  joining  there 

with  tops  of  stockings. 

Now  I saw  that  Fashion 
had  not  smiled 
On  innovation 

such  as  this. 

And  wearers  were  derided 
—often  hooted 

on  the  street; 

Till,  at  last,  the  Queen  relented 
and  the  men  had  chance 
thereafter 

—Chance  to  wear 

the  safer  garments. 
At  their  will 

and  unmolested. 

Then  1 saw 

the  wheel  was  changed 
And  saw  the  woman 

mounting  it. 

And  finding  in  its  running 
much  of  pleasure', 

much  of  joy. 

Nor  womh'red  1 to  see  it, 
for  it.  seemed 

a useful  ph'asure 
— Ay(‘,  a te'inpting  spoi’t 

and  glorious. 


Now  tlie  Queen 

was  loath  to  smile 
Upon  this  wheeling 

by  the  woman; 

But  ere  long  she  yielded 

gracefully, 

And  made  the  sport 

her  own— 


(For  this 

was  Fashion’s  way  of  doing 
—fickle  Fashion). 


Then  a danger 

seemed  to  threaten; 

For  the  skirts 

of  woman’s  wearing 
Were  entangled  oft  in  riding, 
and  the  gentle  rider  thrown; 
(For  the  danger  to  the  skirting 
of  the  leggings 

of  the  man. 

Was  as  naught 

to  woman’s  danger 
in  the  skirting 

of  her  gown). 
Then  1 saw  that  woman 
wondered 

Why  she  could  not  doff 

the  skirting. 
As  the  man  had  done 

before  her, 

To  avoid  her  greater  danger 
in  her  wider-skirting  dress. 
And  her  wondering 

and  her  thinking 

led  her  out  at  last, 
to  doing. 


And,  lo!  emerged  the  woman 
as  I saw  her,  in  my  Vision 
— on  the  wheel! 


Now  glad  was  I in  seeing 

all  this  striking  innovation; 
For  I thought 

the  knell  was  sounded 
now  forever  for  the  wheel; 
— Not  the  wheel 

that  she  was  riding. 
Without  skirt, 

or  flowing  flounces. 

But  the  one  she’d  worn 

in  flounces 

— One  which  swept  the  floor 

and  pavement, 
Or  the  wheel,  or  hoop, 

called  “crinoline!” 

—But  I saw 

the  Queen  was  frowning. 
And  of  women, 

some  were  pouting. 
While  the  men  (and  boys) 
were  hooting 
At  this  newest  change 

of  Fashion, 

And  they  called  it 

innovation; 

As  if  change  of  fashion  always 
(crinoline  to  closer  skirting) 
were  not  startling 

innovations 

—Be  they  good,  or  be  they  ill, 
at  the  time 

the  women  make  them 
(or  the  men). 


But  I saw  the  fashion  gaining; 
and  the  Queen  disposed 

to  smiling, 

And  I knew  that  soon 

her  frowning 
Would  at  skirts  be 

as  of  yore; 

And  I wondered 

(how  I wondered!) 
—When  the  time  would  come 
for  changing 
Back  from  leggings 

to  wide  dresses, 
Would  the  men  and  boys 

(and  women) 
Think  the  innovation 

startling 

(—Or,  at  least, 

so  very  startling 
As  it  was  from  gowns 

to  leggings)? 

Then  1 saw  a home, 

and  in  it  were  two  girls 
— two  daughters 

of  the  household. 
Entered  now  the  father, 

smiling; 

And  li(^  noted 

how  the  girls  were  robed. 
And  o'(‘r  his  face; 

there  ciiiik^  a look, 

of  paiii(!(l  surprise. 
“Nay,  girlies  miiK*,” 

h(‘  said, 

“It  is  not  litl  ing 

— such  a dress  as  t his, 


IS^or  is  it  pleasing 

to  your  father, 
And  he  loves  you 

best  of  all. 

Now,  tell  me, 

is  it  proper?” 

While  he  spoke, 

one  forward  came 
And  playfully 

in  girlish  manner, 
Placed  her  hand 

upon  her  father’s  lips, 
And  made  a laughing  protest 

’gainst  his  speech: 
“Now,  not  a word, 

this  father  mine, 

— For  know  you  not 

that  Fashion  orders  it 
—Society  demands  it. 
— ’Tis  full  dress, 

you  dear  old  sweetheart.” 
Jokingly  he  answered  her: 

“Full  dress,  indeed! 

It  is  not  full,  at  all; 
And,  yet, 

’t  is  more  than  full; 

’T  is  like  the  paradox  of  Life 

—It  is,  and  yet ’t  is  not! 
’T  is  more  than  full 

at  bottom, 

But  at  to]) 

’tis  more  than  less  than  full; 
’t  is  even  more  than  scant 
— There’s  not  enough 

to  weigh  if  ('ven 

in  the  balance, 


(50 


To  weigh  to  prove  it 

wanting  altogether!” 
Now  they  joined  in  laughter, 
for  affection  reigned 

among  them; 

And  love  was  deep 

and  tender 

In  the  father, 

whom  the  girls  adored. 
—The  fatlier,  playful, 
touched  a button, 

calling  in  a servant: 
‘•Bring  a broom!” 

he  said,  in  boyish  glee, 
And,  in  mock  earnestness, 
he  swept  the  floor 

while  saying, 

“If  you  wear  this  train, 

then  I must  go  before 

and  sweep  the  way 
Across  the  porch 

and  all  along  the  street. 
Lest  in  its  folds 

there  gather  up  all  sorts 
Of  dire  reminders 

of  the  gay  bacteria!” 
The  daughter  stayed  his  hand 
and  said: 

“Nay,  Father  Antics, 

—need  of  sweeping 

there  is  none, 

For,  see,  I gather  up  the  folds 
like  this, 

And  carry  all  the  train 

—not  even  touching 

floor  or  ground  at  all!" 

61 


It  chanced  the  other  daughter 
thought  her  of  the  messenger 
who  brought  the  gov/ ns 
— Who  had  been  waiting 
for  some  word 

of  commendation 

Of  the  fitting 

of  the  garments; 
And  she  summoned  hastily 

this  messenger. 

The  one  who  entered 

was  a maid 
Of  stature  small, 

but  years  mature; 
Her  face  was  thin, 

her  eyes  were  sad. 
And  her  apparel 

scant,  and  worn,  and  soiled. 

On  seeing  her 

the  father  of  the  girls 

felt  sore  at  heart. 
And  picking  up 

a pair  of  shears, 

That  lay  within  a basket 

holding  wornarfis  work, 
In  mood  more  serious 

he  quickly  clipped  a border 
From  the  hanging  trail 

of  his  fair  daughter’s  dress. 
And  threw  it  o’er  the  shoulders 
of  the  waiting  maid. 
Who,  in  astonishment, 

could  make  no  protest. 
“This  will  keep  you  warm,” 

he  said, 


“And  you  may, 

at  your  own  convenience, 
make  yourself  a gown; 
And  while  you're  wearing  it, 
remember  well  the  lesson 
that  it  teaches 
—Waste  and  Want 

are  twins. 

And  now,  my  own  dear  girl,” 

he  further  said, 
“There’s  still  enough  to  spare, 
in  this  one  dress, 

To  shear  aw^ay 

and  make  a cape 
To  cover  your  fair  shoulders 
— in  a way  becoming  girls 

so  pure  and  sweet 
As  are  these  daughters  mine, 

my  children.” 

While  he  was  speaking, 

one  had  entered 

- -’t  was  the  mother. 
“Don't  ))e  foolish,  dear,” 

she  said; 

“We  all  must  heed 

Queen  Fashion; 

On  the  dress 

that  pleases  you  the  l)est 
.s7/e  frowns! 

Nh)w  I'asliioii 

has  a way  li(‘r  own 
And  sh(‘  v'Ul  lia  v(‘  it , 

do  w(‘  what  w(‘  may 

to  hin(](‘r!” 

“May  ho  I'at  lier's  right , 

doar  mol  licr," 


Said  the  girls, 

“and  Fashion  may  be  wrong, 
though  she  be  Queen! 
There’s  something  better,  too, 
than  Fashion’s  smile.” 
“ — And  something  worse 

than  love  of  father 
And  this  dear,  sweet  mother,” 
said  the  man. 
And  then  he  kissed  the  mother 
and  the  daughters,  lovingly. 

And  now  I saw 

the  maid  depart. 
Along  the  street 

she  made  her  way 
Until  she  stopped 

at  sound  of  music. 
Out  from  palace  building 

there  was  melody. 
And  sound  of  keeping  time  to  it 
by  tripping  feet  of  dancers. 
Then  the  maid, 

with  train  of  dress 

still  on  her  shoulders, 
(Making  contrast  sharp 

with  soiled  old  dress,) 

stayed,  listening. 
And  drinking  in  the  melody 
of  strains  so  heavenly  to  her 
Ihit  this  I noticed: 

( )iily  in  her  heart 

(lid  ,s7(r  keo])  t ime 

to  music; 

l^'or  her  body  tiriMl, 

and  \veari('(l  limbs, 
and  sore-cliah'd  feet. 


No  impulse  had 

to  beat  the  time 
Upon  the  smooth  but  stony 

pavement. 

—This  I saw, 

and,  grieved  at  heart, 

I heard  again 

that  strange  and  sad  Refrain 
— then  lost  the  Vision ! 
Now  I saw  a sandy  beach, 

and  on  it  gathered  there 
A motley  group 

of  men  and  women, 

lads  and  lasses. 
They  were  playing  noisily, 
all  chatting,  chaffing, 

laughing,  shouting. 
They  were  dressed 

in  costume  varied; 
Only  in  one  way  alike 

—their  costumes— 
’T  was  in  this, 

that  all  their  dress 

was  scant  and  thin; 
For  there  was 

naught  superfluous 

in  dress  of  any; 

Not  enough  to  cover  nakedness 
in  dress  of  many. 
There  was  naught 

to  serve  as  ballast 

—needless  ballast; 
Only  when  ’t  would  help 

to  float  the  body. 
Was  there  more  abundance 

(as  the  larger  sleeves). 


Naught  I thought 

of  this  scant  dress; 

For  everything  seemed 
wholesome,  funful, 

and  for  good  and  pleasure. 

All  suggestion  was 

of  healthful  exercising. 
The  delight  of  friendship 
and  comjanionship, 

forbidding  thoughts  of  ill. 
But  Fashion  had  her  place 
— near  by  and  on  her  throne 
And  smiling— always  sweetly — 
on  her  votaries 

(for  such  they  were). 
But  now  I saw 

a thing  most  strange: 
Along  the  line 

of  Fashion’s  vision, 

(As  she  gazed 

direct  before  her,) 

And  parallel 

with  line  of  shore. 
There  seemed  a line  invisible, 
and  when  the  bathers 
crossed  the  line, 
I saw  that  Fashion  frowned, 
and  quickly  they,  the  bathers, 
would  return  as  if  ashamed. 
(It  was  as  in  the  days  of  old 

— it  seemed — 
When  eyes  of  the  first  pair 
were  opened. 

And  they  knew 

that  they  were  naked.) 


Standing  by, 

(not  bathing,) 

Others  were  there,  watching 
all  the  fun  and  frolic. 
And  the  antics 

of  the  bathers. 
These  would  seem  to  think  it 
naught  of  ill  to  see 
the  naked  limbs 
—While  bathers 

were  within  the  lines. 
But  if  it  chanced 

that  any  stood  without 

that  magic  line, 
And  saw  a bather 

on  that  outer  side. 

They  seemed  disturbed 
in  si)irit, 

sore  dismayed— 
(As  if  in  sympathy 

with  Fashion, 
Looking  on 

and  frowning). 
Now  I saw  that  one 

who  was  a looker-on 
Was  chatting  with  a bather, 

when  it  chanced 
(by  accident,  it  seemed,) 

they  crossed  the  line 

together. 

Jle  who  was  not  bathing, 

(nor  was  dr(‘SS(Kl 

as  were  t In;  ])athers,) 
was  allected 

In  a moment  aft(‘r  crossing, 

by  th(‘  ot  h(‘r’s  (lr(‘ss 


— Was  stricken 

with  some  malady,  it  seemed, 
And  fell  all  prone 

upon  the  ground 
— And  then  I saw  that  he  was 
in  a faint! 

Then  rose  a cry 

of  fright — alarm. 

And  back,  across  the  line, 

the  bather  hurried 
—shamed,  repentant, 
lie  who  fainted,  swift  was  borne 
—upon  a stretcher— 

to  the  Queen, 

Who  sweetly  smiled  upon  him 
(as  if  praising  him 
for  loyalty  to  her 

— the  Queen). 

He  soon  recovered 

— nothing  worse  for  falling 
— When  he  passed  from  sight 

upon  his  way. 

Then  I was  told 

there  was  no  other  remedy 
For  this  strange  malady 

than  Fashion’s  smile 
(Although  I wondered 
if  the  malady  itself 

were  not  a fashion  only)! 
Now  there  came  u])on  the  scene 
t wo  maidens, 

swiftly  wheeling; 
They  dismoiinled  for  a moment, 
joining  lookers-on 
Who  wer(‘  in  numbto's 

on  the  beach. 


But  such  commotion  followed 
that  the  maidens 

soon  were  troubled 
in  their  minds, 
And  were  by  others 

caused  annoyance. 

Now  I saw  it  was  their  dress 

that  made  commotion; 
Though  I wondered 

at  the  strangeness  of  it; 
They  were  dressed  in  manner 
suited  to  the  wheeling 
(not  the  bathing). 
Bifurcated  the  garments 

of  the  girls, 

But  neatly  fitting 

were  they  clothed. 
Their  manner  was  of  those 
who  gentle  are 

and  modest; 

And  well  covered,  hidden, 

were  their  forms; 
— From  sole  of  foot 

to  closely  covered  neck 
was  there  no  nakedness 
upon  them. 

Of  bathers,  who  themselves 

were  bare  below  the  ankle, 
(Aye,  and  some  below  the  knee, 
and  many  bare 

Beyond  the  lines  conventional 
for  even  bathers 

in  the  water;) 

— Now,  there  were  of  these 

who  curious  were 


About  the  dress 

worn  by  the  wheelers, 
And  they  scanned  the  maidens 
closely  (and  offensively) 
With  look  of  being  shocked 

beyond  expression. 
These  made  protest 

by  their  manner, 

(some  by  words;) 
And  there  were  boys, 

(themselves  more  bare 
than  were  the  others,) 
—Boys  who  came  behind 

the  maiden  visitors, 
And,  throwing  sand  upon  them, 
ordered  them  to  ‘‘Scat;” 
Whereat  I saw  they  scatted 

with  alacrity. 
And  (sore  disturbed  in  feeling) 
soon  were  lost  to  view 
By  swiftly  wheeling 

on  their  way. 

Anon  there  came  two  maidens 
who  were  wheeling; 
And  their  dress  was  like  the  one 
worn  by  the  maidens 

driven  off  before. 
By  jeer  and  gibe 

of  sportive  bathers. 
These  were  greeted 

in  like  manner 

to  the  other  wheelers. 
Yet  did  they  but  little  heed 

or  seem  to  fear 
The  frowns  of  Fashion 

or  the  jeers  of  others. 


While  standing  for  a moment 

near  the  throng, 
They  gazed  upon  the  others 

with  an  air  of  mild  disdain, 
Then  hied  them  quick  to  cover 
near  at  hand, 

Where  bathers 

full  convenience  had 
for  making  change  of  robing. 
Here  the  maids  threw  off 

their  outer  dress. 
And,  in  a twinkling,  lo!  emerged, 
and  robed  as  w^as 

the  throng  of  bathers. 
Bare  of  feet  and  ankles, 

and  above; 

And  bare 

of  arms  and  neck. 

In  splendid  form 

and  radiant  maiden  beauty. 
(Quickly  they  appeared, 

a picture  full  inspiring: 
And,  well  greeted,  with  a smile 
by  Fashion. 

Witli  the  smiles  and  cheers 
of  bathers, 
IMunged  they  theti 

Car  in  the  waters 

all  inviting, 

I I(*l[)ing  t hus  lo  sw(‘ll 

t he  noisy  run 

and  Irolic. 

Now.  it  clianced,  t wo  gills 

in  bat  liiiig  cost  uuk*. 
I n some  spirit  of  advent  ur<‘, 

mi rt  li rill,  wanton. 


Saw  the  wheels  unused, 

and,  springing  on  them. 
Wheeled  across 

that  line  invisible. 
This  seeing.  Fashion  frowned 
and  even  stamped  her  feet, 
in  marked  displeasure 
Now  this  action  of  the  maidens 
seemed  as  if  it  were  a crime, 
and  dreadful; 

Though  to  me 

it  was  all  blameless. 
Like  the  harmless  play 

of  kittens. 

For  a time 

they  braved  the  furor, 

but  at  last  they  winced 
Before  the  swell 
of  mighty  indignation 

at  such  dreadful  innovation 
As  infraction  of  the  laws 
of  Fashion, 

and  before  her  very  eyes! 
Back  across  the  line 

tlioy  hurried. 

But  in  very  act  of  crossing 

they  both  tumbled, 
ere  dismounting, 
As  if  to  the  din  and  ])rotest 
of  the  p(‘oj)le 

and  their  Queen! 
Now  t wo  ot  h(‘r  maidc'us, 

mirt  ht’ul, 

1 last (‘iK'd  to  1 h(‘  |)lac(* 

of  rolling, 


And  there  donned 

the  dress  for  wheeling 
Over  their  own  suits 

for  bathing, 

And  returned 

to  mount  their  wheels. 
These  in  their  turn 

were  hooted, 

But  by  some,  not  all 

the  people, 

For  many  now 

were  laughing 
At  the  humor 

of  the  play. 

But  the  thing 

the  most  surprising 
Was  the  doing  of  Queen  Fashion; 
for  she  joined 

the  ones  hilarious, 
And  now  smiled 

upon  the  maidens! 
When  the  jeering  ones 

saw  Fashion 
Was  not  frowning, 

but  was  smiling. 
They  desisted  in  their  protests 
and  no  more 

the  girls  w^ere  hindered 
In  their  wheeling 

at  their  pleasure! 
For  they  knew, 

(but  had  forgotten,) 
That  the  laws 

enforced  by  Fashion, 
Are  but  laws  conventional, 
not  as  of  Medes  and  Persians 
all  unchangeable. 


Now  I saw  the  Queen 

was  curious 

And  became  full  interested 
in  the  style, 
or  in  the  pattern. 

Of  the  dress 

worn  by  the  wheelers! 
Then  in  her  will  majestic 
she  commanded 

their  attendance 

at  her  side. 

This  gave  the  cue  to  others 
and  the  throng, 

no  longer  laughing. 
Ceased  to  make 

a further  protest, 
And  they  turned  to  a discussion 
of  the  merits  of  the  dress 
— its  merits  and  its  faults 
“The  dress  is  not  unpleasing,” 
said  Queen  Fashion, 

now  most  gracious; 
“Let  it  have  its  place 

hereafter; 

—You  may  wear  it 

when ’t  is  fitting 

to  your  need.” 
“Aha,”  one  said,  soon  after, 
and  aside, 

“Its  place  will  be  one  larger 
than  Queen  Fashion 
now  conceives; 
For  where  the  place  not  fitting 
to  its  need. 
If  it  be  in  the  temper 

of  Queen  Fashion 


That  the  dress 

be  worn  at  all?” 

“And  it  will  be 

still  more  pleasing,” 
said  another, 

“As  onr  minds  to  it  are  customed 
in  the  wearing. 
The  human  form, 

that  is  ideal 

— A never- varying  standard, 

peerless  in  its  beauty — 
This,  a thing  of  grace 

and  loveliness. 

So  has  been  hidden 

under  woful  shapes 

of  Fashion 
That  it  is  the  thing  to  which 

we  least  are  customed; 
So  it  is  we  leave 

the  inner  circle 

of  perfection, 

And  we  flounder 

on  the  outskirts 
in  grotesque  incertitude^ 
With  ne’er  a resting  place 
for  sole  of  foot 

of  any  winged  ideal. 
Sf)  it  is  w(?  hug 

as  our  ideals 

tlui  i)ets  of  Fashion, 
Vain  illusiniis, 

of  t h(*  niglitmar(‘  order, 
And  anacliroiiistic  fr(‘aks 

cphouKU'al.” 
aiiol  lici’  said, 

“and  always  it  is  s(e 


The  new  and  strange 

is  not  so  pleasing 

to  our  senses 

As  the  old 

and  more  familiar. 
What  we  love  the  best, 

and  has  our  tenderest  care, 
is  the  oldest  of  association. 
We  love  old  songs 

the  best; 

The  obsolete 

is  most  romantic, 
And  only  that  is  classic 

which  is  of  the  older  days. 
We  like  the  new, 

the  old  we  love. 
The  things  of  yesterday  outre, 
are  on  the  morrow 

in  good  form. 
- -Methinks  the  dress 

has  come  to  stay.” 

Whereat  the  boys 

who  threw  the  sand 

upon  the  girls, 
Now  threw  it  high  in  air 

and  shouted,  “Hip,  hurra,” 
and  full  content . 
And  now,  among  the  bathers, 
saw  I one— a maiden, 
modest,  beautiful, 
And  she  was  clot  hed  in  manner 
more  I'egardful  of  pro])riet  ies 
t hail  others  weri*. 
A moug  t li('  men  was  one 
who  sought  to  tlirt 
with  this  fair  maidc'u; 


“ ’'J'  is  true 


But  she  liked  him  not, 

and  she  repelled 

all  his  advances. 
ITis  appareling  was 

scantiest  of  them  all; 
And  he  was  bolder  in  his  manner 
than  were  others. 
While  I gazed  upon  this  scene, 
it  passed  away. 
And  I was  in  an  office 

in  a city. 

She  who  was  most  modest 
at  the  seashore. 

Sat  there,  in  this  office, 

at  a table,  writing. 
She  was  dressed  in  skirts; 

but  short. 

As  they  are  worn 

by  girls  who  ride  the  wheel. 

And  now  I saw 

that  he  who  was  so  bold 

when  bathing, 
Who  had  liking  for  flirtation, 
who  had  dressed 

in  shameless  fashion, 
—Now  I saw 

that  he  came  forward 
And  he  made  sharp  protest 
’gainst  the  wearing 

in  his  office 

Of  a dress 

like  that  worn  by  the  maiden; 
—of  such  dress  immodest 
—One  that  shocked 

susceptibilities  so  tender 
as  his  own! 


A nd  if  she  hoped 

to  hold  employment  there, 
She  must  appear  no  more 

in  robing  like  her  own 

that  day! 

And  now  he  passed 

without  the  door. 
And  she  who 

had  been  harshly  censured, 
fell  to  weeping; 

When  there  came  to  her 

another  maiden, 
(One  who  had  been  sitting  near,) 
who  brought  sweet  sympathy 
in  words  and  tears. 
And  in  their  talk  together, 
soon  I learned 
How  often,  often, 

had  they  come  —these  girls — 
With  skirts  all  draggled, 

by  the  rain  and  slush 

of  dirty  street. 
All  wet  for  inches 

from  the  bottom  up! 
And  with  these  garments 

wet  about  their  feet. 
Would  these  sweet  maidens 
sit  the  long  hours  through, 
and  suffer 

from  the  dampness. 
When  it  chanced  to  be 

the  turn  of  sacrifice 
That  woman  pays 

for  motherhood, 
(That  man  has  right 

to  safeguard  and  to  honor 


And  that  well  demands 

the  chivalry  most  loyal 
of  the  truest  manhood,) 
— When  this  chanced  to  be, 

there  danger  was 

Of  suffering 

for  these  maidens  fair, 

and  long-continued. 
While  I mused,  and  thought 

that  modesty  of  man, 
so-called. 

May  be  a cloak 

for  something  worse 
than  ignorance, 

this  picture  also  faded. 

Nor  was  it  all  a comedy 

—this  play  of  contrast. 

Progress; 

For  1 saw  such  tragedy 

as  is  in  Life 

— In  all  of  Life 

—its  comedies  and  dramas. 

Now  with  the  changing 

of  the  dress, 
Was  change 

of  occupation. 
First,  the  woman  wrought 
in  dwellings— 

(as  at  service), 
Fven  t oiled  sh(i  i n t lui  ti(‘l(ls 
among  flu*  waving  grain 
Was  hewing  wood 

and  drawing  wal  ei‘ 

Ibr  t he  man. 

Lik(^  a slav<*  oi  man  was  woman, 
and  if  si'cmed 


That  it  had  always  been  ' 

that  woman  thus  had  toiled. 
For  long  and  hard 

was  woman’s  working, 

And  from  morn  till  night, 

and  in  the  night  itself, 
Until  the  morning’s  light 

would  break  upon  her  doing. 
Bringing  day,  but  more  of  toil 
—not  rest. 

I saw  that  woman, 

when  in  service. 

Oft  did  suffer  many  things 

that  hurt  her  pride; 
No  recognition  would  she  have 
that  she  was — woman. 
She  would  sleep  in  corners 

— room  in  garrets; 
She  would  eat  of  scraps, 

and  have  no  change 
Beyond  horizon 

of  a dooryard. 

She  would  tire 

of  all  the  slow  monotony 
Of  grind, 

and  ill-requited  labor: 
As  of  one  without 

the  very  circle  of  her  moving 
—Without  in  all  the  life 

and  purpose  of  it 
— Within  for  needs  alone 

of  holding  l)ody,  soul 

together: 

Within  to  i)lay  the  roh^ 

of  holding  bodies,  souls 
together. 


70 


Of  the  others  whom  she  served 

—of  those  more  favored. 
Now  I saw  her 

seeking  other  service 

than  the  daily  grind 
—The  grind  of 

hopeless  monotone 

of  scant  existence. 
First,  she  sought 

the  factories, 

And  she  found  some  happiness 
in  shorter  hours  of  toil, 
and  freer  ways  of  living. 
Aye,  and  even  seemed  it 
that  she  rose  degrees 
in  social  status 

in  her  laboring! 
And,  so  encouraged, 

other  fields  she  entered! 

—School  and  office 

and  the  shop. 
And  medicine  and  law 

and  pulpit; 
Till  at  last  (it  seemed) 

there  were  no  doors 
That  had  been  open  n 

to  her  brother 
That  she  feared 

to  knock  upon. 

And,  when 

in  her  own  quiet  way 
She  knocked  for  entrance 

into  newer  rooms, 
There  were  no  doors 
that  opened  not 

at  her  persistence. 


Then  I saw  her  writing  books, 
and  printing,  sketching, 
painting,  teaching, 
— All  in  ready  willingness 

and  skill. 

And  happy  in  her  newer  sphere 
of  independence 
All  unknown  to  her  of  old 
(and  to  her  mothers, 

of  the  centuries  gone). 
Nor  did  she  lose 

the  graces  of  her  sex, 
In  changes  rapid 

like  to  these; 

Hut  out  from  all  these  phases 

of  her  doing 
—From  out  the  shop, 

the  factory,  school 
and  office 

Gladly  did  she  go 

and  enter 
Woman’s  greater, 

grander  sphere 

—the  Home 
—The  sphere  she  loves 

e’en  better  than  them  all 
—The  sphere  of  wifely  joys, 
of  mother  cares 

—the  sphere 

of  Love. 

The  Comedy  was  ended; 

I was  in  a city 

— on  the  street. 

I saw  a half-closed  open  door; 
’twas  closed  from  sight 

—not  entrance. 


71 


For  ’twas  open  to  all  comers, 
had  they  money  and  desire. 
It  had  an  air  solicitant 

far  more  than  air  inviting. 
Standing  there 

in  lounging  postures, 
(Of  the  atmosphere  about  them 
all  unmindful,) 

There  was  group 

of  idle  people. 

In  the  hand  or  in  the  mouth 

they  had  cigar  or  cigarette 
— In  their  eyes  was  smoke, 

in  nostrils,  fumes  of  liquor. 
Air  they  had  forbidding 

and  repellent. 

Some  were  gross, 

and  some  were  lawless, 
all  of  them  ill-bred; 
And  coarsely  eyeing, 

boldly  staring. 

Or  were  ogling, 

all  the  passers-by. 
Idle  loungers—common  loafers — 
were  tliey; 

And  as  careless  of  themselves 
as  reckless  of  the  rights 
of  others. 

Comment  made  they, 

at  their  fancy, 

( )n  the  peoj)l(‘ 

passing  nc'ar  1 iiem; 
On  1 h<‘ir  di’ess,  thrir  walk, 
tlici r maimer, 
or  t heir  seeming  (‘rrand. 


With  these  fellows 

—rude  and  reckless— 

There  was  naught 

in  any  manner 

sacred  in  its  privacy. 
AVhen  the  subject 

of  their  laughing. 

Of  their  scoffing, 

chaffing,  sporting. 
Heard  their  comments, 

loudly  spoken, 
Naught  cared  they, 

the  vampires,  vipers. 
They  the  vagabonds, 

the  villains. 

Were  they  not 

freebooters  social, 
—Traitors  to  all 

kindly  ties? 

Spared  they  none 

—not  even  women? 
Nay,  for  more  than  man 

was  woman 

Made  their  mark, 

was  made  their  target. 
She,  less  callous  than  the  others 
— she  who  keener  feels 

the  stings, 

In  her  inner  self 

more  sensitive,  more  modest, 
More  alive  to  coarse  allusion, 

lustful  glance, 
1^'or  her  it  was  they  had  in  store 
when  ])assing, 
All  t he  slial’ts  of  ridicule, 

most  stinging. 


If  there  was  of  manliness 

in  all  this  group  of  idlers, 
loafers, 

It  was  in  abeyance, 

it  was  dormant,  latent, 
—There  was  none 

in  evidence. 

Not  so  strange  this  picture; 

I had  seen  it  often,  often, 
And  I ask 

who  has  not  seen  it, 
Seen  it  daily, 

in  the  cities,  in  the  towns 
and  in  the  country? 
And  the  answer 

— you  may  hold  it, 

if  you  will, 
Aye,  lest  it  shame  us 

—shame  our  ethics. 
Shame  our  progress, 

shame  our  laws, 

and  our  religion. 

While  I watched 

this  group  of  idlers. 
One  there  came 

along  the  way. 
Who  had  helped 

unroll  the  Scroll. 
(She  was  wheeling 

as  before.) 

Naught  saw  I in  all  her  manner, 
or  her  dress, 

unpleasing; 

To  mine  eyes, 

and  to  my  senses. 


She  was  innocence 

and  sweetness, 

grace  and  beauty. 
If  there  aught  were 

in  her  manner  or  her  dress, 
unusual. 

It  were  nothing  more 

than  novelty; 
— But  novelty 

is  not  a crime. 
With  a movement  rapid, 

graceful. 

Came  this  girl 

— a lovely  vision. 


As  she  neared 

the  group  of  idlers 
She  had  cause 

to  stay  her  motion 

and  dismount. 
Now  I saw  that  it  was  she 
who/at  the  wedding 

of  her  brother 
Stood  beside  the  bride, 
it  was  the  sister 
of  the  one  so  beautiful 
— Most  beautiful  of  all  to  me 

—my  Vashti; 

Aye,  I saw 

that  it  was  Edith. 


Quickly,  with  malicious  folly, 
one  who  blear-eyed  was 

and  drunken. 

Called  aloud, 

in  halting  hiccough: 
‘ ‘Shame— (hie)— shame 

upon  her!” 


73 


And  there  were 

amon^  these  idlers 
Some  who  were 

(in  manner  seeming) 
Not  ill-bred, 

and  not  ungentle, 
Who  the  thought 

of  this  brute  drunken, 

echoed— laugh  i ng ! 
Colored  then  her  face, 

as  crimson. 

Did  the  face  of  this 

fair  maiden; 

And  no  longer  staying,  waiting 
for  the  purpose 

of  her  halting. 

She  moved  on 

l)iit  now  was  walking 
Out  of  reach, 

and  sight,  and  hearing, 
of  the  objects  of  offensel 

Ko  retort  she  made 

— no  answer. 
Not  within  her  right, 

it  seemeth, 

to  make  answer. 
It  was  in  her  right,  it  sc'emeth, 
but  to  suffer,  and— move  on; 
-That  washer  full  right 

as  woman, 

Ihit ’t  was  all  her  right, 

it  seemeth  I 

Strange  the  laws, 

and  strange  the  customs, 
'J'hat  the  right  is  mim; 

to  tr(*sj)ass; 


And  her  right  is  but  to  suffer; 

— other  right  not  hers 

— the  woman’s! 

Were  I she, 

I would  take  chances, 

if  I could,  on  Mars; 
There,  mayhap, 

they  do  things  better 
— naught  could  they 

do  worse. 

Now,  in  passing, 

swiftly  wheeling. 
There  was  one  who  heard 

and  saw  it 

—Saw  the  scene  that  I 

had  witnessed; 

Then  he  stopped, 

and,  lightly  springing, 

stood  before  ns. 
‘‘Yours  the  shame,” 

he  cried  out,  hotly, 
“And  ’tis  more  than  shame 

in  you; 

Foul  your  breath, 

and  air-polluting, 

— All  too  foul  for  saying  shame 
to  one  so  pure 

—so  pure  and  lovely 

— As  we  sec 

in  yon  fair  wheeler. 
’T  is  no  shame  for  doing  only 
what  is  good  in  her  own  eyes; 
what  is  full  within  her  right! 
Say  you  shame, 

aye,  you  who  know  not 
half  the  meaning 
of  the  word? 


71 


When  you  say  it,  you  shame  only 
her  who  bore  you 

— your  own  mother!” 
He  was  young  who  spoke 

— just  merging  into  manhood; 
Clear  his  eye, 

his  hand  was  steady 
Warm  his  heart, 

and  pure  his  thought. 
Type  was  he  of  rarest  manhood, 
and  I loved  him 
For  his  graces, 

for  his  courage, 

And  his  championship 

of  girlhood 

— Chamyjionship  of  one 

deserving, 

One  so  lovely  and  well  worthy 
of  protection 
Close  he  stood  beside  his  wheel; 
within  one  hand 

the  handle  bar. 
With  one  hand  lightly, 
on  the  saddle 
—resting  lovingly  upon  it. 
As  a thing  of  life  and  breathing, 
as  a man  his  steed  caressing. 
Were  the  two 

— the  steed  and  rider. 
And  he  stood 

as  one  dismounted 

for  a moment  only. 

As  one  ready 

at  the  word  of  speeding. 
To  be  off  and  fleeting 

out  of  sight. 


‘‘Eight,  my  boy,” 

said  one  much  older 
—One  who  heard  it  all 

while  passing, 
lie  was  one  whose  hair 

was  graying, 
Kot  as  once  so  strong  his  arm, 
but  his  eye  was  clear 

and  kindly. 
Steady  was  his  voice 

and  bearing; 

“Right  my  boy, 

there’s  something  cheering 
in  such  manliness  as  yours; 
When  3^011  shall  take  the  helm, 

^ the  best  of  us  nvdy  go. 
W e older  are,  and  of  the  past, 
and  soon  we  must  go  hence; 
The  man  who  comes 

is  new. 

And  I would  see  him  worthy 

of  the  woman  new 

(If  she  be  all 

the  other  ask  of  her). 

If  you  are  he, 

(or  he  be  such  as  you,) 

we  welcome  him. 
The  times  have  changed, 

the  fashions,  too, 

have  changed; 
But  fashions  of  our  day 

are  not  so  free  from  fault 
That  they  deserve 

perpetuation. 

W e ourselves 

oft  changed  the  fashions, 


At  our  pleasure, 

at  our  will; 

Oft  to  suit  our  needs, 

our  fancies,  or  our  whims. 
And  shall  we  say 

to  those  now  coming 
— Those  wdio  come 

to  take  our  places: 
When  you  take  in  hand 

the  vessel. 

You  must  ever  trim  the  sails 
as  they  were  trimmed  before? 
Yaught  it  matters 

what  the  need  of  sailors, 
Yeed  of  wind, 

or  need  of  weather. 

Or  the  purpose 

of  their  sailing. 

As  they  find  the  sails, 

(or  always  as  we  left  them,) 
shall  they  trim  them! 
Shall  we  ask 

of  their  young  blood 

such  folly? 

Xay,  I say,  to  their  own  liking 
be  tlieir  sailing. 
And,  my  sailors, 

— iiien  and  women — 

Let  me  fell  yon, 

not  too  well  your  sailing, 
I f it  be  not  belter 

than  of  old. 

Little  did  we  in  our  past 
1o  giv(‘  ns  pride; 

And  less  that  we  may  nrg(' 

tor  your  repeating! 


— Xaught  that  we 

may  force  on  you  as  model.” 

‘‘Eebuked  am  I,” 

said  he  of  ruddy  nose, 

half  sobered; 

“ — Boy,  forgive  me 

—here’s  my  hand. 

And  give  me  yours, 

young  fellow 
Better  far  in  other  care,  my  boy, 
in  care  of  manly  men, 

like  you. 

Than  in  the  hands  of  men, 

like  me 

(Who  are  not  men), 

is  woman. 

Boy,  forgive  me, 

for  her  sake— my  mother, 
and  for  her— the  maiden  j 
— Yes,  for  her  who  had  no  need 
for  shame.” 

Whereat  the  boy, 

with  glowing  face. 
Clasped  hands  with  him, 

now  nearly  sobered; 
Whereupon  the  motley  group 
dispersed,  in  quiet  seriousness. 
And  ere  the  Vision 

faded  from  my  view. 
The  sad  liefrain  had  changed 
to  melody  more  buoyant 
—to  an  air  triumphant. 

Now  1 saw  a woman  beautiful 
— ay(‘,  beaut  il  ul  beyond 

all  other  women; 


For ’t  was  Vashti, 

Yashti,  queen— my  queen. 
She  was  dressed 

in  manner  fitting  for  a jaunt. 
There  was  freedom 

in  the  movement 

of  her  limbs; 

No  sleeves  too  large  and  loose, 
nor  skirts  to  be  entangled 
in  the  wheel, 
Nor  corsets  cramping  her 

free  breathing. 
Fashion  in  no  way 

distorted  her. 
Or  hid  what  is  most  beautiful 
of  all  the  forms  of  Nature 
— hid  her  woman's  form. 
— All  its  curving  lines 

of  grace,  of  beauty, 

all  poetic  motion 
Were  not  marred 

by  tightened  stays, 

protruding  bustle, 

or  by  flaring  skirt. 
Vashti’s  form  was  lithe, 

was  flexile. 

And  her  eye  was  bright 

with  pleasure; 
Glowing  was  her  face, 

and  crimson  with  the  health 
of  her  young  life. 

‘T  am  ready,” 

sang  she  sweetly, 

‘T  am  ready,  gentle  Edith, 
what  is  keeping  you, 

my  little  one,  my  chum. 


Now  come 

and  have  a spin  delightful. 
For  the  day  is  one  most  perfect, 
and  all  Nature  sings 

a welcome 

—She  is  in  her 

kindliest  mood.” 

Ere  the  maiden  chum 

came  to  her. 
Chanced  there  by 

one  not  a maiden, 
But  instead,  a maiden’s  lover  . 

(as  1 saw  soon  after)! 
Blush  of  pleasure 

— recognition — 
Flushed  the  maiden’s 

happy  face. 

As  she  lifted  hand 

to  clasp  one 

That  had  held  her  hand 

before. 

But  the  man  withheld 

his  greeting 
While  the  maiden 

fondly  waited. 

And  he  glanced 

with  cold  displeasure 
At  the  maiden’s  form 

and  dress. 

Stern  his  visage, 

form  unbending; 

In  his  eyes 

a look  severe; 

Quiet,  stood  he, 

chill,  reproachful, 
Cold  surprise  in  all 

his  manner. 


Checkedl  the  gladness 

of  the  maiden, 
Gone  the  smile 

of  welcome  for  him, 
And  her  eyes  fell 

’neath  the  lashes 
While  her  face 

was  half  averted. 
Then  he  spoke  in  tones 

of  harshness. 

And  his  words  were  rough, 

unpolished: 

“What  an  outfit! 

I detest  it! 

Never  in  my  days  and  doings 

saw  I such  a rig  before! 
It  is  odious,  aye,  offensive, 
and  I want  to  say  right  here. 
That,  unless  from  now,  forever, 
you  discard 

that  mode  of  dress, 
Xtver  shall  take  place 

the  marriage  we  intended.” 

hor  a moment 
})Oth  stood  silent, 

gazing  each  ui)on  tlie  other; 
( hilled  tin;  maichai, 

and  she  coldly 

I )r(*w  a ring 

off  Irom  h(‘r  ling(‘r  — 

•I  Icre  it  is 

1 li(‘  ring  yr)ii  ga v(‘  nn*, 
'l*ak<*  it  hack 

I ca imot  k('cp  i 1 . 
Now,  as  well  as  waiting  longer, 
learn  yem,  sir. 


That  woman’s  thinking, 
and  her  doing, 
are  within  herself. 
To  such  spirit  of  dictation 

she  no  longer  can  submit; 
If  you  seek  some  one 

more  yielding, 

You  are  free, 

from  now— -Fom?er.” 
With  a heart  oppressed 

and  burdened, 

Yashti  proudly  turned  aside, 
till  he  passed  out 

from  her  presence. 
Out  forever 

from  her  heart! 

So  he  passed 

— so  passed  the  lover. 
But  a lover  she  had  yet 
—one  who  loved  her 

more  than  ever 
—One  who  stayed; 

for  still  I lingered 
—I  who  now  was  Yashti’s  lover 
— Yashti’s  only  lover. 

AVhile  I watched  her, 

pale,  yet  lovely, 

Edith  came, 

and  pale,  like  Yashti; 
on  h(‘i‘  rac(‘  a troubled  look. 
She  had  chang('d 

the  drc'ss  like  Ahishti's 
And  sh(‘  wor(' 

a woman's  gown. 
Now  sh(‘  smiled 

wlnm  slu'  saw  \’asht  i 


78 


— Smiled  as  if 

in  joyous  greeting; 
Yet  seemed  Yashti 
most  unmindful 
of  the  other’s  gentle  grace. 
Then  she  roused  herself 

—did  Yashti, 
And  she  forced  a smile 

of  greeting, 

But  from  Edith’s 

tender  scanning 
Was  not  hid 

the  falling  tear. 
“Tell  nie,  dearest, 

what  the  meaning 
Of  this  much-surprising 

sorrow, 

— T^ay,  my  sweet  one, 

I will  hold  you, 

And  myself 

am  with  you  weeping 

till  1 know  it  all— it  all.” 

Then  did  Edith, 

sweet,  persuasive, 
Learn  the  burden 

of  her  sister; 

And  in  sympathy  divine-like, 
lightened  it  by  bearing  of  it. 
“Come  you,  sister  mine,” 
said  Edith, 

“We  must  hie  us  back, 

a moment. 

For  my  robing 

like  your  own. 
We  shall  bear  this  cross 

together. 


While  your  little  sister  A 

near  you. 

You  shall  never,  never  carry 

all  the  cruel  load  alone.” 

And,  though  gentle 

was  this  maiden. 

She  was  firm, 

and  had  her  way; 

And  I saw 

that  Yashti  yielded 
That  her  chum 

should  doff  her  gown. 
Doff  it  for  a dress 

like  Yashti’s 

— Dress  like  that 

which  caused  her  sorrow. 
Cost  the  lovely  girl 

a lover; 

But  a dress 

that  pleased  another. 
Pleased  one 

who  could  love  her  better 
—Better  than 

the  tyrant  lover — 

(As  it  seemed 

to  her  new  lover 

— lover  now  forever). 

Once  again  I was  in  Class, 

but  now  a Sabbath  class 
—a  Sunday  school. 

Ere  I saw  it 

I had  listened 
To  such  sweet 

and  holy  chimes 
As  flood  the  soul 

with  spirit-life; 


That  bring  to  weary, 

burdened  hearts, 
a holy  peace  and  calm. 
Then  I listened 

while  the  people  sang, 

the  young  and  old, 
But  more  the  young, 
for  there  were  few 

beyond  the  years 

of  childhood. 
This  the  hymn  they  sang 

— ’twas  prayer  in  song: 

Our  Father 

a'ho  in  heaven  art, 

To  Thee  we  pray, 

OHoly  One; 

O hallowed 

may  Thy  name  e'er  he. 
Thy  kingdom  come. 

Thy  %cill  he  done. 

He  done  on  earth 

as  't  is  in  heaven 
— ()ur  Lord,  Thy  Son, 

himself  hath  send; 

( > may  we  ever 

to  Thee  pray: 

( iive  ns  this  d<vy 

onr  daily  bread. 

As  ire 

forgive  our  (h  htors  here, 
'Lhon 

on  r t resjjosses  f(a'(/i ve; 

I nio  fe'niplal i(m 

Irad  Ks  'uol, 

( > may  u'e  n(  (i n r 

to  lluiUvi. 

HO 


And  now  we  pray, 

O Holy  One, 

That  Thou  from  evil 

us  deliver, 

And  Thine  the  kingdom 

evermore. 

The  power  and  glory, 

praise,  forever. 

Then  I saw  a class  of  boys, 
and  they  were  lively, 
boisterous,  ardent, 
mirth-provoking. 
And  their  teacher 

was  himself  a youth. 
Then  I saw  upon  his  face 

a look  to  me  familiar; 

And  I wondered  if  1 knew  him 
—wondered  where  I saw  him 
in  the  past. 
Then  one  older,  speaking  to  him, 
called  him  “Jacob;” 
When  there  came 
within  my  mind 

a Hash  of  memory, 

And  T knew  that  it  was  he 
who  spoke  so  well 

in  championship  of  Edith. 

Now  at  the  sound, 

of  gent  le  t ap  of  bell, 

1 heard  a nois('  of  buzzing 

— as  of  many  voices 

in  t he  air  tog(‘t  her; 
1 1'  was  nois('  of  all  tin'  classt's 
— schola rs,  t (‘aclnu’s, 

tilling  all  t he  room. 


‘‘Blessed  are  the  merciful,” 
said  Jacob, 
to  the  waiting  boys. 
“This  scripture 

is  our  lesson  for  to-day. 

To  whom  shall  we  be  merciful 
—to  whom,  to  what?” 

In  ready  unison  of  voices 
came  the  answer, 

and  they  said: 

“To  all— to  man 

and  beast.” 

“To  all,” 

the  teacher 

quick  responded, 

— “Yes,  to  man  and  beast, 
to  all  the  creatures 

of  the  Father.” 

Then  he  told  them 

of  the  thoughtless 

cruelties  of  men 

To  other  men, 

to  beasts,  to  brutes: 
“Were  we  ourselves,  both  dumb 
and  helpless. 

And  another, 

having  power  and  force, 

could  make  us  suffer, 
W e should  cry 

within  our  very  souls 

for  mercy; 

W e should  feel 

that  he  who  is  not  merciful 
Hath  claim  on  none  for  mercy 
for  himself. 


—If  man  be  righteous, 

he  regard eth  life  of  beast; 
— so  is  the  word 

of  Proverbs. 

If  man  be  cruel, 

he  will  brutalize  himself; 

— this  is  the  word 

of  Poet.” 

“Boys  are  cruel; 

—is  it  of  our  nature 

so  to  be?” 

So  questioned  one 

of  thoughtful  bearing. 

“Not  so  cruel 

is  the  boy,  at  heart, 

but  thoughtless  only. 
We  have  seen  the  boy 

delighting  in  the  chase 

of  pretty  butterfly. 
The  killing 

of  a harmless  squirrel. 
The  robbing 

of  the  little  home  of  bird. 
The  worrying  of  dog 

— its  cruel  torture. 
Maiming  of  dumb  animal, 

— and  heedless 

to  the  mute  appeal 
Of  eyes  of  eloquence 

for  life. 

For  liberty  to  have 

its  humble  comfort 

unmolested. 
We  have  seen  the  boy 
remorseless 

in  these  cruelties, 

81 


Nor  ever  feeling  once 

a smiting  at  the  heart 
For  all  the  needless  suffering 

he  causes. 

— But  we  see  the  boy 

grown  older. 

And  when  home  and  children 
have  drawn  out 
The  deei>er,  tender  harmonies 
of  soul  and  being, 
He  who,  as  boy, 

was  cruel  in  his  very  play. 

As  man, 

is  tender  as  a mother-heart 
for  helpless  babes. 
But  I would  have  you 

tender  aoio,  my  boys, 
Would  have  your  hearts 
go  out  in  sympathy 

for  all  that  suffers. 

In  a kinder  fellowship 

for  all  of  Grod’s  creation. 

1 would  have  you  halt 

ere  you  shall  rob 
The  life  of  that 

which  never  has  molested  you; 
W I lose  loss 

may  serve  you  not; 

( )r  1 hat  which  you 

h;iv(‘  power  to  take, 

hut  7/0/  /o  (//tr  (Kjdin! 
To  1 akc  a lilV  unhiddcui, 

as  it  s(‘(‘ms  to  m/*, 

Is  making  piotcst 

■gaiusi  1 In*  great  ( ’r(‘al or 
of  ail  li f/* 

H 


For  giving  life  that  you, 

in  your  small  wisdom, 

Do  declare  by  action 

hath  no  need  to  be! 

Now  it  may  be 

that  lesser  life 
Hath  been  created 

for  the  need  and  use 

of  larger  life; 

If  so  interpret  we 

the  will  of  Him 
Who  is  the  Father 

of  all  life, 

It  may  be  well  that  we, 

(in  all  the  spirit 

of  the  will  divine,) 
Take  life  that  hath 

its  use  and  purpose 

to  our  need. 

And  in  this  spirit 

—in  the  spirit  of  some  need, 
And  in  some  manner 

full  in  harmony 
With  all  the  purposes 

of  life, 

—In  spirit  such  as  this 
we  may,  perhaps, 

take  life  we  cannot  give. 
And  not  embrute 

the  larger  life— our  own 
— Til  at;  larger  life 

t hat  all  of  smaller  life 

doth  seem  to  serve. 

‘lUit you  will  ask, 

‘is  not  creat  ion 

all  a growt  h 


Of  that  which  hath  been  living 
on  its  fellows, 
Till  a chain  of  life, 

(from  lowest  to  the  highest,) 
Is  made  up  of  links 

that  are  the  lives  gone  out 

for  other  life? 

For,  life  of  one 
is  feeding  always 

on  some  other  lower  life; 
And  it,  in  turn, 

doth  give  its  life 
As  food  for  higher  life; 

till  man  is  reached. 
And  he  his  hand  controlling  lays 
on  all  the  lower  life. 
And  makes  it  serve  his  need, 
and  makes  it  yield  its  life 
to  save  his  own. 

Must  we  not  say 

that ’t  is  the  will  of  Him 

who  gave  all  life. 
That  man  shall  do 

what  all  of  lower  life 
Has  always  done, 

is  always  doing  in  its  turn? 
—Yea,  is  not  this 

the  will  of  Him 
Who  placed  the  need  upon  us 
of  existence. 

And  the  power  hath  given  us 

to  serve  that  need?’ 
And  I answer  you, 

that  so  to  me  it  seemeth; 
But  it  seemeth  even  true 

that  in  the  lower  life  alone 


The  instinct  is 

to  always  take, 

to  kill,  destroy; 
For  as  the  evolution 
of  enlarging  life 
Finds  resting  place 

on  higher  planes, 

There  is  the  higher  thought 

— the  thought  divine; 
— Not  thought  of  taking  life 

— destroying  it. 
But  thought  creative 

—thought  of  giving 
—Thought  to  save,  not  kill, 
to  help,  not  hurt, 

to  aid,  not  hinder! 
So  it  is  that  man 

who  reaches  higher  planes, 
(Who  nearer  comes  to  Him 
whose  image  he  should  bear,) 
Has  less  desire, 

and  lesser  need. 
For  hurting,  hindering 

other  life 

—For  taking  it 

beyond  recall. 
The  nearer  to  his  own 

the  other  life, 

Along  the  line 

of  its  development. 
The  more  to  him 

’tis  sacred 
In  its  right  to  stay, 

to  serve  the  purpose 

of  its  being. 

We  may  choose 

those  higher  planes. 


83 


Or  may  elect  to  fall  behind 
— to  take  the  backward  way 
toward  lower  life 
— To  take  our  way 

back  to  beginnings. 
As  we  set  our  faces, 

so  we  make  our  journey; 
And  I tell  you,  boys, 
when  we  are  cruel, 

cold  and  heartless, 
—Taking  other  life 

in  needless  way, 
We‘re  setting  face 

not  to  larger  heights. 
But  backward,  rather, 

toward  the  lower  planes — 
To  planes  where  even  lesser  life 
is  pushing  only /o?’?x'a?T?/ 
Would  you  turn  your  faces 
toward  the  heights 
— the  zenith  of  all  purpose; 
Let  me  tell  you, 

boys  of  mine. 

You  must  be  gentle, 
kindly,  helpful, 

to  all  struggling  life. 
Nor  ev(‘r  li (‘artless, 

cold  and  cruel 
To  your  r(‘llows, 

man  or  briil (‘. 
So  Id  us  heed  tin*  words  oT  him 
who  wrot(‘  as  (Hk*  inspirc'd: 

'Hk  (judlih/  of  invirij 

is  no!  strained; 
It  (trnpjntli,  (ts  Ifa  (fndle  ndn 
J rain  In  ari  n 


Upon  the  place  heneatii: 

it  is  twice  blessed; 

It  blesseth  him  that  gives, 

and  him  that  tahes: 
^Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest; 

it  becomes 

The  throned  monarch 

better  than  his  crown; 
His  sceptre  shoios  the  force 
of  temporal  power, 

The  attribute 

to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit 

the  dread  and  fear  of  kings; 
But  mercy 

is  above  this  sceptred  sivay. 
It  is  enthroned 

in  the  heart  of  kings. 

It  is  an  attribute 

to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  power 

doth  then  shmv  likest  God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice. 

The  Class  was  over 

and  I thought: 

How  many  the  Gamaliels  in  life 
and  to  most  willing  ears 
are  speaking; 

Teaching 

of  t he  life  that  is, 
lis  purpose,  meaning, 

and  its  issues! 
And  how  many  more 

are  learning, 

Sit  t ing  at>  t h(‘  ft‘(‘t 

of  masters! 


Oh,  the  hungering 

and  the  thirsting 
Of  the  human  heart 

for  light! 

For  the  bread 

—the  bread  and  water— 

for  the  needs  of  soul; 
Or  some  key  that  may  unlock 
the  awful  mystery  of  Life! 

Now  I stood  upon  the  street 
— the  crowded  thoroughfare 
of  noisy  city. 

Along  the  way 
a horse  was  speeding, 
under  lash  of  reckless  driver. 
Now  he  stumbles, 

does  the  noble  brute. 

And  prone 

upon  the  pavement  lies. 
With  bulging  eyes, 

and  gasping  breath. 
Crowded  round  the  fallen  brute 
was  group  of  idlers 

—men  and  boys; 
And  from  the  windows 

there  were  gazing 
men  and  women. 

As  the  manner  is  of  accidents 
upon  the  street. 
Then  I saw  that  he 
who  drove  his  horse 

so  hardly,  to  his  death. 
In  anger  was 

and  heartless  mood. 
‘•Oh,  shoot  him,” 

cried  the  fellow,  roughly. 


“He  is  done  for, 
and  the  quicker  out  the  way 
the  better!” 
Among  the  lookers-on  were  boys 
who  in  the  Sunday  class 
Had  learned 

the  lesson  of  humaneness. 
Shocked  their  hearts 

—their  hearts  yet  tender — 
By  the  sight  of  brutal  coarseness, 
and  the  cruelty  of  man. 
“Isn’t  he  a brute?” 

exclaimed  one, 

“If  he  were  my  father,” 

said  another, 

“Do  you  think  I’d  own  him? 

—Never,  never!” 

Said  another: 

“Our  old  nag  is  past  aworkin’ 
xVnd  we  haven’t 

ever  harnessed  him 

for  years 

—For  more  ’n  four  or  five, 

I reckon; 

But  d’ye  think  we’d  treat  him 
like  that  fellow  does  a his’n? 
Betcher  boots  we  wouldn’t 

—would  we,  Billy?” 
“You  wouldn’t  do  it— never,” 

Billy  reckoned  heartily. 
“Guess  you  like  him 

just  as  much 
Or  more  ’n  when 

you  worked  him,” 
Further  answered  Billy, 

with  fine  loyalty. 


“More  '11  ever,"  said  tlie  boy, 

“I  guess  we  do, 

and,  anyways. 

If  only  for  the  good  he’s  done, 
we  wouldn’t  let  him  suffer; 
— For  the  good  he’s  done, 
and  not  for  what 

he’s  good  for  now  I” 


Still  the  boys 

were  lingering  near. 
To  see  the  doings  of  their  elders, 
and  the  ending  of  a scene 

to  them  a tragedy. 
“Say,  mister,”  said  a lad, 

to  him  who  had  the  mules 
in  hand. 


But,  doomed  the  beast 

of  hopeless  burden, 
For  there  came 

a minion  of  the  law. 

In  uniform 

of  brass  and  color. 

Under  gaze 

of  thronging  seers, 
Made  he  end, 

by  leaden  bullet, 
Of  the  life  v/ithin  the  beast 
—the  life,  as  one  may  see  it. 
“What  a brutel” 

the  boys  cried,  hotly; 
And  their  words 

were  not  intended 
For  tlie  beast 

in  death  low-lying. 

But  another  brute  still  living 
—for  a brute 

t hey  call(‘d— a man. 
A moinmit  after, 

on  the  iKjrse's  m.'ck 
1 -aw  a chain, 

and  there  was  one 
Who  came  with  mul(*s 
I o drag  1 1m‘  body 

to  lli(‘  burying. 


* Now  ain’t  you  goin’ 
to  say  a word 

about  the  horse 
— Say  somethin’  over  him 
— say  somethin’  good 

before  you  bury  him?” 
“Yes,  give  the  horse  a funeral,” 
said  another. 
“Quick,  let’s  off  our  hats 

—now,  boys.” 

The  driver  halted, 

for  a moment  puzzled, 
Questioning  the  meaning 

of  the  boys. 

When  it  flashed  upon  his  mind 
that  they  were  serious, 
And  would  liave  religious  rites 
and  proper  burial 
For  the  carcass, 

loud  he  laughed; 
But  only  half  in  ridicule, 
and  half,  himself, 

in  serious  mood. 
On  second  thought 

he  swore  an  hybrid  oath, 
And  started  up  the  mules; 
and  so  t h(‘  boys  (and  Ix'ast) 
wcr(‘  clu'at  (‘d  of  a funeral. 
m 


Anon  there  came  two  girls, 
swift  speeding 

on  their  wheels. 
On  seeing  this,  the  boys 

forgot  their  little  grief, 
And  with  a loud  ‘diurra!” 
ran  wildly  on 

to  meet  the  girls 
And  give  them  greeting 

—of  its  kind. 


^‘IIo,  bloomers!” 

cried  they  out,  in  chorus, 
Knickerbock,  forever 

— what  a guy!” 

“How  now.  Miss  Wanton,” 

said  another; 

—Then  he  saw  a look  of  pain 
pass  o’er  the  face 

of  one  of  these  fair  girls, 
And  quickly 

did  he  check  himself 

as  one  ashamed. 
Now  1 saw  that  she  was  Edith, 
and  the  other,  Vashti! 
And  I saw  the  boy 

was  hurt  in  mind. 
And  to  a mate 

said  hurriedly: 

“ ’T  is  our  own  teacher 

in  the  Sunday  school; 
And  we  have  shamed  her 
—shamed  the  one  we  love 

the  best  of  all.” 
“No,  shamed  ourselves,  I guess,” 
the  other  answered. 


More  ourselves  than  her 

—I  wonder  did  she  know  us?” 
Then  I saw  the  first  boy 

cried,  in  his  vexation. 
And  he  vowed  he’d  never  dare 
to  see  her  face  again. 
Now,  rough  and  rude 

as  was  this  greeting. 
Still  the  girls  were  helpless; 
and  no  answer 

could  they  give. 

But  blush,  and  pale, 

and— move  along. 
Nor  was  there  one 

on  all  the  street 
To  chide  the  boys 

or  stay  their  hand; 
Yet  there  were  standing  by, 
an  officer. 

And  beings  dressed  as  men, 

who  laughed  derisively. 
All  sympathy  had  spent  itself, 
it  seemed,  on  dust  of  brute; 
And  none  was  left 

for  gentle  maidens 
—Mothers  yet  to  be,  perchance, 
of  boys  and  men. 
And  I was  angered, 

when  I saw  it  all, 
And  wondered: 

Is  the  person  then 

of  every  citizen. 

Save  her  most  helpless 
— save  the  woman, 

safe  from  insult 

and  assault? 


87 


So  it  seemed  to  be, 

in  this  a land 
Of  righteousness 

and  liberty. 

And  wondered  I what  sentiment 
was  there  abroad, 
That  scenes  like  this 

could  come  before  mine  eyes! 

The  scene  was  changed; 

—it  was  a home 
—One  beautiful, 

and  Edith  entering. 
She  was  flushed  in  face, 

and  had  a troubled  look; 
And  when  she  entered 

sought  she  soon  and  found 

her  mother. 
Dropping  on  her  knees, 

she  buried  face 

in  mother’s  lap. 
And  tlien  the  pent-up  flood 

was  open. 

And  the  trembling  girl 

was  sobbing  bitterly. 
No  (question 

asked  tlie  tinider  mother; 
—Only  waited  for  the  girl 

to  speak. 

“They  called  me  wanton,” 

Edith  said,  at  last. 
“And  you  were  brave,” 
the  mother  answered 

“only  brave,  my  darling.” 
Then  I turn(‘d  my  rac(‘, 

and  left  them  t hen*; 


As  if  a place 

too  holy  for  all  others 
— Left  them  there 

where  this  sweet  maid 
Might  in  the  slumb’rous  comfort 
of  a mother’s  arms. 
Find  peace  and  rest 

denied  her  by  her  fellows 

— man  or  boy! 

And  now  I saw  that  Edith 

was  again  awheeling, 
But  was  dressed  in  skirts 

(as  women  are  when  walking); 
For  it  seemed 

her  courage  failed  her 
For  a longer  martyrdom 

in  dotting  skirts  again 
—for  even  Yashti’s  sake! 
Now  she  and  Yashti 

were  again  together. 
And  ’twas  Yashti  only 

who,  in  dress  more  fitting 
PYr  the  wheeling, 

dared  to  brave  the  ridicule 

of  thoughtless  boy, 
And  vulgar  gaze 

of  ruder  man. 

Along  the  street 

the  girls  were  spinning, 
When  they  heard, 

the  warning  sound 

of  clanging  bell, 
And  thundering  clatter 

on  the  pavement 
Of  the  wheels  of  engine 

sp(M‘(ling  to  a lire. 


HH 


On  their  way,, 

and  coming  toward  them, 
saw  they  plunging  horses, 
As  if  mad  with  speed 

and  lash  of  driver. 
Quick  the  street  was  cleared 
for  right  of  way 
And  all  the  air  was  tense 

with  deep  excitement. 
Now  the  girls  made  haste 

to  turn  from  danger. 
Yashti  quick  dismounted, 

and  with  ease. 

But  dress  of  Edith, 

(in  her  aim  to  turn  aside 
and  spring  off 

from  her  wheel,) 
Fast  caught  in  spokes, 
and  Edith  fell 

upon  the  stony  pavement. 
She  was  lifted, 

and  most  tenderly. 

By  one  who  soonest  came 

to  aid  her; 

Then  I saw  that  Edith 

was  unconscious; 
And  that  he  who  came 

so  quickly. 

Lifted  her  so  tenderly, 

—was  John. 

And  now  I heard 

the  sad  Refrain  again. 
It  seemed  to  voice  the  sorrow 
of  a breaking  human  heart; 
It  seemed  to  be  the  wail 

of  hopeless  agony. 

89 


And  then  I saw 

a long  procession. 

As  of  mourners, 

moving  to  a burial. 

Yet,  I saw  they  sorrowed  not 

as  they  who  have  no  hope; 
For  black  was  not 

the  emblem  of  their  grief. 
All  white  the  carriage 

that  was  bearing 
To  its  resting-place 

the  body  of  the  dead. 
No  hearse  was  there 
with  lofty  plumes 

of  ostentatious  mourning; 
And  no  fashionable  woe 
expressed  by  robing 
—all  conventional — 

of  bearers. 

Nor  hired  were  the  vehicles 

of  burial 

Whereby  could  mourning  be 

by  proxy 

(As  in  the  older  days 

when  weepers  by  profession 
Wept  more  loudly 

than  the  ones  bereaved)! 
But  there  was  grief 

—and  sorrow  all  intense— 
As  one  would  sorrow 
at  the  absence  long  prolonged. 
But  not  the  loss, 

of  those  best  loved  of  all. 
They  seemed  to  sorrow 
as  do  they  whose  absent  ones 
are  near  in  spirit, 


And  as  looking  for  the  day 

when  they  will  meet  again, 
And  for  companionship 

more  joyous  than  before. 
And  so  no  solemn  funeral  dirge 
was  sung, 

And  no  display 

of  hopeless  grief; 
But,  in  the  march 

that  led  to  burying-place 

of  mortal  body. 
There  was  melody 

of  life  triumphant 

and  eternal. 

Yet  was  there  among  them 

one  who  sorrowed 
1 n a way  more  hopeless 

than  the  others. 

This  was  John 

who  mourned  as  they 

who  have  no  hope. 
Who  had  no  ray  of  light 

before  him. 


Vashti  walked 

])eside  her  brother; 

1 11  h(M’  maiden  fashion 

she  had  laid  her  hand 

111)011  his  arm, 
A iid  in  her  sympathy 

and  1 ender  love 
I ‘^aw  her  look  uj)  in  his  face 

to  comfort  him: 
A lid  more  t lian  (‘‘(‘r  Ix'fore 

I lov(‘d  h(*r, 

N'aslil  i beaut  i ful 

so  sw('et , so  bra  V(‘. 


And  now  I saw  the  coffin 

and  upon  its  lid 
I read  these  words, 

— these  simple  words, 

“Our  Edith.” 

Plain  the  service, 

for  it  was  not  formal. 
Ere  it  ended 

one  there  was 

who  forward  came 
And,  in  a poem, 
voiced  the  hopefulness  of  life 
—of  death  itself! 
And  when  ’twas  o’er, 

they  waited  not  to  hear 
The  hollow  sound, 

or  mockery  of  sound. 
Of  falling  clod 

upon  the  coffin 
— Empty  coffin, 

empty  of  all  else  but  clay 
— The  dust  to  dust, 

its  purpose  served. 

And  back  to  its  own 

mother  Earth, 
To  make  again  the  round 
in  further  service 

of  the  needs  of  Life. 

They  left  the  grave,  and  singing 
— singing  song  triiimiihant. 
That  had  in  it-  simtiment 

of  spirit  life  and  presence. 
So  t lu'y  [lassed 

out  from  my  sight, 

A 11(1  all  to  m(‘  was  lost , 

savi'  numiorv, 


And  lingering  strains 

of  melody 

—The  airs  triumphant 

— song  and  march — 
Both  to  the  grave 

and  from  it. 
And  then  I thought  how  strange 
these  melodies  no  echo  had 
Of  that  weird,  sad  Eefrain 

I heard  so  oft  before; 
For  what  of  all  the  scenes 

that  came  before  mine  eyes, 
Was  there  so  sad 

as  was  this  tragedy 
—This  death  of  Edith 

— gentle  Edith. 
Ere  the  strains  of  melody 

were  lost  upon  mine  ear 
There  came  (and  marching) 

boys  whom  I had  seen 
In  Edith’s  class 

and  Jacob’s. 
They  gathered  round  the  grave 
and  silent  were. 
While  it  was  being  filled 

with  earth. 

Then  one  who  was  a leader 

—leader  born. 
Turned  to  the  others, 

saying: 

“Fellers,  when  we  missed 

the  other  fun’ral, 
Who’d  a thought 
we'd  have  another  one  so  soon! 


And,  fellers, 

say  just  what  you  like, 

this  is  our  fun’ral.” 


Choking  here,  he  paused, 

then  said: 

“There’s  many  ways 

of  killin’; 

We  may  kill  with  hate, 

and  we  may  kill,  I guess, 

by  likin’; 

We  may  kill  on  purpose, 

or  may  kill  and  not  know 

what  we’re  doin’; 
But  I tell  you,  boys, 

it’s  killin’,  every  time, 
—for  killin’s  killin'! 
Every  time  that  someone’s  life 
is  taken,  someone’s  killed. 
What  is  killin’,  anyway, 

and  what’s  the  name 

for  him  what  does  it? 
What  d’  ye  think 

we  orter  call  it? 
Don’t  make  no  mistake, 

now  fellers. 
There  isn't  anything 

to  call  it  ’cept  one  thing: 
It’s  murd’rin’,  boys, 

— it’s  murd’rin’. 

And  the  one 

what  does  the  killin’ 
—He’s  a murd’rer, 

yes,  a murd'rer! 

So  it  doesn’t  matter 

how  he  does  it, 

— killin’s  killin’; 
And  the  thing  what's  killed 

is  murdered. 


91 


So  the  one  what  does  it 

has  to  be  a murd’rer! 
Say,  was  she  killed? 

(pointing  to  the  grave), 
Who  killed  her  then 

— you  orter  know.’’ 
He  paused, 

and  all  were  silent. 
“Well,  you  know,  as  well  as  me, 
and  everybody  knows; 

For  if  we’d  let  her  go  that  day 
and  hadn’t  shamed  her, 
like  we  did. 
She’d  be  alive  to-day 
like  we  are  now; 
then  who’s  her  murd'rers?” 
When  he  paused, 

they  answered,  “We  are.” 
Meekly,  and  repentant 

did  they  answer. 
“Yes,  we  killed  her 

—killed  our  teacher 
Wliat  we  loved, 
and  more  than  all  of  them, 

so  we’re  her  murd’rers.” 
Here  he  ])aused  again, 

and  let  tlie  force  of  silence 
go  beyond  the  power 
of  words. 

“Now  we  can't  lielj)  what’s  done; 
what’s  done  is  don(‘,” 

he  said; 

“She’s  gone, 

:ind  W(‘  can't  l)ring  lier  bnek 
I’nr  Jill  onr  1 ryin*. 

^h*s,  sIm*'*^  gone." 


Again  he  paused, 

to  clear  his  voice. 
And  drew  a dirty  hand 

across  a freckled  face 
To  hide  the  signs 

of  sobbing  heart. 

“If  we  can’t  bring  her 

back  to  life. 

There's  one  thing  we  can  do, 
for  we  can  stop  right  off 

akillin’  others. 

Yow  fellers, 

near  the  very  grave  of  her 
— xlbove  the  very  corpse 

(they  called  it) 
Of  the  beautifulest  girl, 
we  ever  knowed 

(now  all  were  weeping). 
We’re  agoin’  to  swear; 

— I mean  we’re  goin’  to  take 
—to  take  the  oath 

we  spoke  of. 
Off  your  caps  ’n  fold  your  hands 
’ll  shet  yer  eyes 

— You,  Tom,  ’ll  you.  Bill  Guilder, 
ready,  swear; 

You  say  the  words, 

right  after  me: 
We  swear  by  all  that’s  good 

to  swear  by. 

That  we're  sorry 

t hat  W('  killed  her 
— Glosi‘  yer  eyes, 

yon  murd’rers — 
And  W(‘  ii(‘Vi‘r,  iK'Vi'r,  ni‘vc‘r'11 
do  it 


In  our  lives  again 

—so  help  us! 
An’  we  vow  that  when  we  see 
a boy  or  man, 
Insult  a girl,  or  woman, 

or  that  cries  out  at  her  dress, 
dr  says  a word  that  hurts 

her  feelin’s. 

We’ll  soon  let  ’em  know 

who’s  her  protector. 
An’  we’ll  tell  them 

they’ll  be  murd’rers 
’Fore  they  know  it 

like  we  were. 
An’  then  we’ll  stop  ’em 

if  we  can. 

An’  if  we  can't 

we’ll  call  a cop. 
Now  lift  your  hands, 
an’  swear  by  her  that’s  gone.” 
“We  swear,”  tliey  said. 
“Let’s  join  together 

so  we’ll  have  a ’ciety,” 

said  one; 

“Let’s  have  our  members 

and  our  officers. 
And  have  a pledge, 

and  all.” 

“Yes,  let’s,”  the  leader  said, 
and  readily; 

And  then  and  there 
they  improvised  and  organized. 
In  mimicry,  unconscious, 

of  the  ways  of  men. 
“The  first  thing  is  the  pledge;” 

so  said  the  leader. 


“Put  your  finger 

on  your  forard. 

Let  it  linger 

there,  you  coward.” 
“We’re  not  cowards,” 

said  a boy,  in  anger. 
“Yes,  you  are,  ’n  all  of  us, 

’n  so  is  men. 
The  things  we  tackle 

are  the  littlest  things  of  all; 
It’s  so  ahuntin’,  so  in  fishin’, 

so  it  is,  I guess,  in  fightin’. 
We’re  the  bravest 

when  we’ve  got 

the  biggest  chances; 
Them  that  blows  the  most’s 
the  biggest  cowards, 

ain’t  they?” 

“Yes,”  they  all  agreed, 

and  bravely. 

As  the  manner  is 

of  those  whose  chances 

are  the  smallest. 

“Say  the  pledge  again. 

Now  put  your  finger 

on  your  forard. 

Let  it  linger  there,  you  coward; 

— thafs  the  skull. 

Now  close  your  fists 
’n  cross  your  wrists; 

for  tliat^s  the  cross-Jmies. 
Hold  your  cross-bones 

’gainst  your  skull 
An’  say  the  pledge 

with  me: 


"We  pledge  we'll  never 
in  our  lives 

insult  a woman.” 


O.— ‘‘Yes,  we’ll  stand, 

we  pledge  we’ll  stand 
an’  let  the  woman  sit.” 


“Never,”  answered  all, 

in  chorus. 

Leader — “Girl  or  woman;” 

Others—^  ‘Gi rl  or  woma n . ” 


L. — “Pledge  we’ll  let  her  sit 

— God  bless  the  woman.” 
O. — “Let  her  sit 

—God  bless  her.” 


L. — “An’  we  pledge 

we’ll  not  speak  ill 

of  woman;” 

O. — “Never  will  speak  ill 
of  woman, 

girl  or  woman.” 

L. — “An’  we  pledge 

we’ll  help  a woman 
every  time  we  can;” 

O. — “Every  time  we  can 

we’ll  help  a w o m a n . 
L. — “Help  our  mothers, 

or  our  sisters, 
An’  tlie  other  fellers’ 
mothers,  sisters, 
or  their  daughters 
— help  all  women;” 
O.— ‘-f  )urs  an’  every  feller’s 
mother,  sisters, 

an’  tlieir  daughters.” 
L.  ‘^^(‘dge  that  we’ll 

si  and  lip  for  women  always;" 
0.—“  We'll  St  and  iij) 

for  women,  always." 
L. — “We'll  not  sit , 

an’  let  a woman  st and 
That  ought  to  sit 

tn'U  st  and:" 


L. — “We’ll  be  loyal  fellers, 

an’  we’ll  always 
Lift  our  caps  to  her 

— by  that  she’ll  know  us.” 

Then  they  pledged  themselves 
as  Loyal  Fellows, 

And  they  said: 

“We’ll  take  the  name  as  ours.” 
And  well  I thought  the  boys 

deserved  it— noble  fellows; 
May  their  tribe  increase 

— the  Loyals. 
So  1 mused,  and  hoped 
that  there  might  be  but  few 
(of  older,  as  of  younger,) 
Who  would  not  be  in  it 

— in  the  boys’  society. 
And,  as  for  me,  I said, 

“A  Loyal  I would  wish  to  be 
forever.” 

“Is  there  penalty?”  said  one; 

“V('s,  Yes,”  I hoot  lu'rscrii'd. 
“A  ixmally!  A i)enalty!” 

“L('t 's  have  a ])(Mi:il(yI 
And  what's  it 

goin'  to  be?" 
“A  pc'iially  tor  wliat ?'’ 

the  hauh'r  asked; 


“For  breakin’  pledge/’ 

they  answered. 
“This’ll  be  the  penalty,” 

the  leader  said: 

“If  one  of  us  is  seen  ahootin’ 
at  a girl  that’s  rid  in’ 

on  a wheel, 

(An’  ’cause  he  doesn’t  like 

her  dress,) 

Iledl  have  to  be,  himself, 
dressed  up  in  bloomers. 

An’  a rope 

tied  round  his  ankles. 
An’  the  rope’ll  be 

as  long’s  a cable 
— More  ’n  a hundred  feet, 

I guess — 

An’  then  a girl 

that’s  rid  in’  on  a wheel 
’ll  take  one  end  the  rope. 
An’  then  lie'll  have  to  toiler  lier 
as  fast  as  she 

can  make  him  go. 
—So  that’ll  be 

his  skull  and  cross-bones!” 

Questioned  one 

in  troubled  expectation: 
“Will  lie  have  to  make  the  sign 
of  ‘skull  and  cross-bones’ 
all  the  time  he’s  runnin’  ?” 

“Yes,  of  course,” 

the  answer  was, 
“Of  course  he  will, 

— ’n  then  we’ll  call  him, 

‘Bloomers! 


— Go  it.  Bloomers! 

You’re  a manly  man— you  are, 
But  all  the  same 

you’ve  got  to  take 

your  medicine!’ 
-Yes,  that’ll  be  the  penalty; 

now,  how  d’  ye  like  it?” 
And  they  liked  it  well 

— each  thinking  of  it 
For  the  other  fellow, 

not  himself 
(The  generous  fellows 

— men  in  embryo)! 

Now  I saw 

that,  standing  by  the  boys. 
Was  Yashti 

and  her  brother  John. 
Unnoticed  by  myself, 
and  by  the  boys, 

had  been  their  coming; 
And  the  boys  were  shamed 

at  seeing  them 
—As  if  their  doings 

had  been  ill. 

But  Vashti’s  smile 

of  friendly  greeting 

quick  assured  them. 
You’ll  forgive  us,  boys, 

for  seeing; 

— Bless  you,  for  your  loyalty 

to  woman.” 
“We’re  the  ones  to  be  forgiven,” 
said  the  leader, 
“An’  there’s  sometliin’  more 

to  ask: 


Won’t  you  forgive  us 

for  Miss  Edith; 

It  would  be  like  having  her 

forgive  us— if  you  would?” 
“Dear  Edith  knows  it  all,” 

she  answered, 

“And  already 

you’re  forgiven; 
More,  she  loves  you, 

as  I love  you; 

Bless  your  hearts, 

you  meant  no  ill; 
And  good  will  come 
— must  come — at  last, 

from  all  this  seeming  evil.’* 
— Yet  I saw  that  in  her  smile, 
a sob  was  hidingl 
“What’s  the  name 

of  your  society?” 
Was  Yashti’s  question  next; 

as  if  to  turn 
The  current  of  their  thought 

away  from  Editli. 
“Won't  you  name  it?” 

One  besought  her; 
“Name  it,  John,”  she  said; 

and  John  said,  quickly: 

“ I r I nanH‘d  it, 

I would  name  it 

for  its  obj(‘(*t 
— I‘*or  Proinot  ing  .1  nstic(‘, 

Coiirt.esy,  (Ti  vilily 
And  I\indn(‘ss 

I o All  ( i i rls  and  Women.'’ 
And  1 In*  name  was 

to  1 lie  liking  of  1 In*  hoys. 


Then  Yashti  added,  sweetly, 

as  was  Yashti’s  way; 
“But  one  thing  is  there  lacking 
in  it  all — 

Now  make  it  open 

for  the  men  full-grown; 
For,  greater  is  the  need 

with  them 
Than  with  my  boys— my  Loyals 
— for  its  teachings.” 

50  it  ended,  and  again 

was  Yashti  gone  from  me! 
Now  I was  taken 

to  the  farm  again. 
It  had  an  air 

as  if  deserted. 
Something  told  me 

all  were  gone. 

Now  there  came 

one  who  was  aged; 
And  he  seemed  as  one 

whom  all  the  world 
Had  buffeted, 

and  left  alone. 

lie  also  found  (as  I had  found) 
no  faces  that  he  knew. 
Then  slowly  wandered  he 

out  to  the  tields. 

And  there,  alone, 

he  sorely  wept. 
And  there  I left  him, 

with  the  sound 

51  ill  in  my  ears  ot  this  st  range, 

plaint  iv(‘  melody,  and  words 
That  In',  in  tri'inhling  voice, 

and  solit  inh',  had  sung: 


’T^s  true^  it  is  as  graceful 
as  when^  in  other  days, 

It  wound  along  in  beauty 
to  the  top;  but  as  I gaze 
This  musing  hour  upon  it, 
sad  tears  my  eyelids  fill. 

For  somethhufs  gone,  forever, 
from  the  old  path  up  the  hill. 

The  sunlight  and  the  shadow 
rest  upon  it,  ivitfi  the  same 
Dear  benedictive  presence, 
as  in  the  days  when  came 
Fo  aching  care  to  haunt  me, 
from  morn  to  eve  at  will. 

Ere  something  passed  forever 
from  the  old  path  up  the  hill. 

The  breezes,  as  they  loiter  by, 
the  old  airs  fondly  croon. 

The  blythe  birds  in  the  treedops 
sing  as  in  my  lifers  lost  June, 
And,  as  then,  the  myriad 
blossoms 

all  around  their  wealth  distill 
But  tlieiFs  something  gone, 
forever,  from  the  old  path 
up  the  hill. 

Something— a face — a touch  of 
hand 

— a voice — a presence — lo, 

A 'world  that  brought  me  heaven 
— all  vanished,  with  the  fiow 
Of  pauseless  time,  and  slowly 
along  I wa  nder  still — 


With  something  gone  forever, 
from  the  old  path  up  the  hill. 

Woidd  ye  might  come  again 
— again 

— O days  so  dear  to  me. 

And  give  me  back  the  glory 
of  my  life’s  sweet  Arcadyl 
For,  though  summer  reigns, 
a goddess, 

in  my  heart  lives  winter's 
chill. 

Since  something's  gone  forever, 
from  the  old  path  up  thehill. 

I lift  my  wet  eyes  skyward, 
and  plead:  ‘AVhy  7nust  it 
be— 

This  inmost  desolation, 
this  aivfid  misery?" 

But  Silence  mocks  my  heart's 
cry, 

fresh  tears  my  eyelids  fill — 
Ah!  something's  gone  forever, 
from  the  old  path  up  the  hill. 

The  sun,  in  royal  splendor, 
is  flushing  all  the  west; 

The  day  is  dying — dying 
— 't  will  soon  be  time  to  rest; 
— But,  ah!  no  rest  for  me, 
as  all  alone  I wander  still — 
With  something  gone,  forever, 
from  the  oldpath  up  the  hill. 

And  now  I heard 

the  sad  Refrain  again, 


And  it  was  like  a wail  of  sorrow 
from  a human  heart 

near  broken. 

From  out  this  wail 

I lieard  a voice, 

And  listening, 

I heard  these  words, 

And  knew  ’twas  Yashti, 
singing: 

Tm  nohodi/s  darling 
— Fm  nobody's  darling^ 

The  world  is  all  heedless 
— is  heedless  of  tears, 

My  light  is  gone  out 
and  my  heart  is  all  desolate, 
Desolate  now, 
in  the  flood-tide  of  years; 

Oh,  why  ivill  none  love  me, 
none  love  me,  none  love  me. 
Oh,  why  is  this  dearth 
in  mine  heart — in  mine  heart, 
()h,  wiry  has  no  sold 
in  its  ovm  heart  its  yearning, 
Forbidding  this  drifting 
these  long  years  ajjart; — 

And  nobody's  darling, 
ah!  nobody's  darling. 

The  v'hole  n'orld  so  heedless, 
so  heedless  of  tears. 

One's  light  all  gone  ont 
and  (rue's  h(((rt  all  (bsolate; 
— !>( sol((te  'n(nv 

in  the  Jl(Kni-tid(  (f  y(  (irs. 


Oh,  is  there  no  love-life, 
no  love-life,  no  love-life. 

Some  ivorld  not  all  heedless 
— so  heedless  of  tears. 

No  light  all  gone  out 
and  no  heart  all  desolate. 

But  ever  a gladsome 
flood-tide  of  years? 

O yes,  there's  some  love-life, 

I know.  Oh,  I know. 

Where's  never  a dearth 
in  one's  heart — in  one's  heart; 
Each  soul  for  some  other, 
another  for  each  one. 

And  nevermore  drifting 
nor  hung'ring  apart; — 

But  somebody's  darling, 
yes,  somebody's  darling, 

A world  not  unkindly, 
and  no  more  of  tears. 

One's  heart  never  burdened, 
and  nevermore  desolate, — 
Always  a glad-time 
and  flood-time  of  years. 


Tlien  in  the  anguish 

of  my  sympatliy  for  Yasht  i, 

1 awok(‘,  and  round  myseli 

on  mine  own  concli, 

A nd,  lol  't  was  morning 

—it  was  all  a dream! 


98 


Aye,  ’twas  all  a dream, 

and  yet,  it  seemed  so  real, 
I could  but  think 

I was  not  dreaming 

when  I saw  the  Vision. 
And  Yashti,  none  so  real  to  me 
as  she; 

In  all  my  thoughts, 

for  days,  for  weeks, 

was  Yashti  present. 
In  my  dreams  I saw  her, 

in  my  days  I mused  of  her; 
And  oft  I asked  if  it  might  be 
that  Yashti  lives. 
And  sometime  would  she 

come  to  me— be  mine? 
And  yet  I knew  it  could  not  be 
—for  was  it  not  a dream! 
And  what  are  dreams? 

Vagaries  of  the  mind, 

all  uncontrolled  by  reason! 
This  the  answer, 

but  no  clearer  than  before, 

the  thought. 
For  still  the  question 

is  unanswered 

—what  are  dreams? 
Now,  often,  in  those  days, 

I sang  of  Yashti,  sang  to  her; 
As  did  the  lover,  in  the  Vision, 
to  his  bride. 

I sang  this  song: 

O Vasliti  fair^ 

my  love  for  thee, 

Is  like  the  surge 

of  swelling  sea; 


Nor  time  nor  tide 

more  changeless  be 
Than  is  my  love, 

sweet  maid,  for  thee, 
O Vashti  fair! 

O Vashti  fair! 

Than  is  my  love, 

sweet  maid,  for  thee, 
0 Vashti  fair! 

O Vashti  fair, 

wherever  it  he 
Thy  home — if  in 

the  earth  or  sea — 
3ry  heart  has  love 

for  none  but  thee, 

0 Vashti  fair! 

for  none  but  thee, 

0 Vashti  fair! 

O Vashti  fair! 

3fy  heart  has  love 

for  none  but  thee, 

O Vashti  fair. 

3Iy  Vashti  fair, 

0 come  to  me. 

As,  in  my  dreams, 

1 came  to  thee. 

If  thou  art  real, 

my  bride  to  be, 

O Vashti  fair, 

my  bride  to  be, 

0 Vashti  fair! 

O Vashti  fair! 

If  thou  be  real, 

O come  to  me. 

My  Vashti  fair! 


99 


And  once  I dreamed 
at  mid-day  clear 

—nor  was  I sleeping, 
And  I beard  the  Voices 

as  they  sang: 

O Vashti  lives 

— ivill  come  to  thee; 

Xor  in  the  earth 

nor  in  the  sea 
She  lives;  hut  near, 
and  lives  to  he 
Thine  own — thine  own 
— thy  hride  to  he, 

O Vashti  fair! 

O Vashti  fair! 

She  lives,  and  near, 

thy  hride  to  he, 

O Vashti  fair! 

So  did  I sing, 

and  they,  the  Voices; 

Yet  the  thought 

— thougli  sweet — 
That  Vashti  lived— was  near  me 
— would  be  mine 
—This  thought 

was  of  the  things 

that  are  of  life 
—The  tilings  not  r(‘al 

— less  rcial,  pcrcliancc', 

t han  (lianuns. 
A nd  so  1 he  days  wcmt  on, 
and,  at;  t ho  last , 

all  hop(‘  was  gon(‘: 
I'orwoll  I knc'w 

I had  been  droaming  only 


— Well  I knew  my  mind 
had  played  me 

tricks  fantastic, 
—As  the  mind  is  wont  to  do 
when  dreaming 
— sleeping  or  awak(\ 
So  passed  the  days, 

and  still  no  sign 

of  Vashti  mine; 
Yet  Love  outlasted  Hope 
and  always 

did  my  heart  remember. 
Aye,  so  passed  the  days, 
and  at  the  last,  was  I content 
to  dream  her  real: 
And  then  I said:  “Sometime 

(in  other  life,  perchance,) 
Will  Love  and  Hope 

be  reconciled. 
So  passed  the  days; 

and  even  dreams 

—my  empty  dreams— 
Were  real  to  me,  at  last; 
and  I was  comforted 

by  Vashti’s  hope 
That  somewhere 

is  a Love-Life, 

And  with  nevermore  of  drifting, 
or  of  hungering  in  the  heart 
— Whei‘(‘  always  is  a glad-time 
and  a Hood-time  of  the  years. 

Now,  in  this  mood  was  1 
wlum  something  strange 

befell  me; 

1 was  sit  t ing 

in  my  chair,  in  otlice, 


101) 


And  was  prone 

to  slumber, 

When  mine  head  bent  low 
upon  my  desk, 
and  I was  sleeping. 

Then  I rose,  anon, 

with  what  intent 

I had  no  thought. 
And  with  no  word  explaining, 

passed  out  on  the  street. 

Along  the  crowded  way 

I went, 

No  thought  controlling, 
save  some  purpose 

undefined. 

Turned  I at  last, 

and,  through  a door 

all  unfamiliar. 
Mounted,  vStep  by  step, 

a stairway, 
—Deigning  not  to  take  the  lift 
that  waited  there  inviting. 

Unquestioning,  I made  my  way, 
until  I stood  before  a door; 
Then  turned  the  knob, 

nor  waited  bid  of  entrance. 

Once  within,  I let  the  door 

swing  back  to  place. 
And  gave  no  heed 

to  noise  it  made  in  closing. 

Then  I walked  across  the  floor 
and  stood  beside  a chair 
Wherein  a maiden  fair 

was  sitting. 


She  was  leaning  forward, 
and  I saw 

that  she  was  troubled 
— Burdened  with  some  task, 
or  problem. 

That  was  baffling 

her  own  solving. 
Glancing  at  a sheet 

that  lay  before  her, 
I there  saw 

a needed  answer. 
Beaching  forward,  then, 

I took  her  hand  in  mine. 
And  made  it  write  in  answer 

to  her  questionings. 
Quickly  turned  the  girl, 
and  glancing  up 

(as  one  surprised), 
Her  eyes  looked  into  mine, 
and  then  I knew 

’twas— Yashti! 
When  she  saw  my  face, 
she,  for  a moment 

lost  her  smile  in  wonder; 
And  she  questioned  by  a look, 
the  meaning  of  my  coming. 
Then  I smiled,  in  quiet  way, 
and  re-assuring, 

— Smiled  as  one 

who  knew  her  well. 
And  Yashti  seemed  to  bring  me 
from  her  memory; 

and  her  smile, 
(That  rare,  sweet  smile 

that  none  but  Yashti 

ever  gave  to  me,) 


Made  all  her  face  aglow, 

and,  in  the  joy  of  it, 

I turned  away 

and  toward  the  door. 
Through  the  door, 

and  down  the  stairs. 
Out  on  the  street, 

along  the  way. 
And  back  again 

to  where  I toiled, 

1 went  with  speeding  feet, 

and  heart  of  gladness. 
Then  I sat  me  at  my  desk, 
and  fell  once  more  to  slumber. 
When  I woke 

I had  a happiness 
That  lifted  me  above  the  world, 
as  if  on  wing. 

A happiness 

beyond  the  speaking 
was  the  thought 
That  Yashti  lived 

—had  smiled  on  me, 

And  I had  hope 

to  win  her  as  mine  own 

— O joy  the  thought! 

Wliat  }iai)piness  to  know 

it  was  no  dream 
— What.  I had  seen  Ixdbrc' 

— tli(‘  Visions 

— All  the  songs,  tin*  classc's, 
pictures,  mcl(Kli(‘S, 

or  sad  or  buoyant . 
No  baseless  fa))i‘ie(>r  a vision 
was  niy  ( I ream, 


But  it  was  real  and,  best  of  all, 
was  Yashti  living. 
Now  a mate,  beside  me 

(of  my  toil  companion) 
Spoke  me,  smilingly: 

‘‘A  jolly  sleep  you  had. 
And  something  in  your  dreams 
has  made  you  happy; 

Tell  us  of  it — 

saw  you  one  you  love?” 
I smiled,  and  answered; 

‘•Nay,  not  in  my  sleep, 
and  dreams,  I saw  her; 
But  my  joy  is  of  my  visit 

in  the  hour  of  absence 
Ere  I slumbered  here 

again. 

I may  not  tell  you  of  it  now; 
but,  later,  you  will  know, 
perchance. 

— Was  I long  gone 

—how  long  asleep?” 

He  smiled,  and  answered: 

“Nay,  you  slept 

the  time  away, 

and  dreamed: 
But  short  your  hour 

as  minutes  are 

— not  live  in  all! 

Vet  this  will  I concede 

to  your  own  thought: 

I f to  be  olV, 

is  to  be  gone  away, 
'I'lnm  w('r(‘  you  gone  indcH'd  ; 

for  one  may  sw(‘ar 


That  you  went  off 

— went  off  to  sleep!” 
Whereat  he  loudly  laughed 
at  his  own  humor; 

But  I had  no  heart 
for  merriment, 

and  joined  him  not. 
Gone,  again,  my  happiness, 

and-  Yashti 

— Yashti,  but  a dream; 

yet  did  I love  her 

even  as  a dream; 
And  all  the  hours, 

awake  or  sleeping, 
Yashti  was  beside  me 
— Yashti  of  my  dreaming, 

but  as  real  to  me  as  life. 
And  ever  did  I mourn 

the  ending  of  it  all 
— The  ending 

of  the  romance  of  my  life 
— my  only  one. 

For  Yashti  only,  could  I love, 
since  I have  dreamed  other; 
Yet  like  the  end  of  others 

was  mine  own; 
—Though  they  had  found 

and  lost. 

While  I had  lost 

who  had  not  found! 
Such  is  the  paradox 

in  Life! 

Now  time  went  on 

and  then  it  came 

That  Hope 

was  fast  o’ertaking  Love. 


It  chanced  that  with  a friend, 

I strolled  along 

an  unaccustomed  way; 
And  while  abroad 

we  talked  together 
As  the  manner  is 

of  friends  congenial. 
Now  our  theme 

was  such  as  this: 
— Of  Life— of  Death — of  Mystery 
of  Dreams  and  Yisions 

(sleeping  and  awake). 
We  talked  of  what  was  real, 
and  what  imagined 
(or  that  had  such  seeming). 

What  is  Life?  we  asked; 
and  what  is  Death? 

Are  either  real— are  both? 
Which  is  the  real, 
and  which  the  seeming? 
Which  is  Death — which  Life? 
But  questionings  like  these 
led  all  too  deep 

for  my  divining; 
For  not  schooled  was  I 

in  studies  of  the  soul, 

of  occult  things; 
Of  things  ununderstandable 

to  me. 

That  other  men  explain 

with  ease  and  fluently. 
But  listened  I to  him 

— my  friend— 
Who  of  these  themes  absorbing 
was  beyond  his  fellows  wise; 


And  heard  I him 

in  his  own  pleasing  way 

make  rare  discourse. 
Xow,  in  his  thought, 

the  things 

That  are  most  real  in  seeming 
are  the  most  imagined; 
—What,  in  our  own  minds 
are  things  imagined, 

are  the  real! 
And  dreams,  he  said, 

(what  we  call  dreams,) 
Mayhap  are  the  realities  of  Life, 
and  only  these  are  real! 

So  Death ! 

To  him ’t  was  not  the  real; 
Except  as  it  was  Life  itself 

(and  larger  life)! 
Or,  better.  Death,  as  Death, 
is  all  imagined; 
P)Ut  as  Life ’t  is  real 
—far  more 

than  is  our  living  here! 

S(j  his  discourse 

was  wise  and  deep; 
lUit  fartlier  in  the  depths  to  me 
than  was  the  mystery  before! 

Vet  had  it  Hope; 

and  I was  more 

my  s(‘(‘king  now 
1'lian  all  1 liings  else 

l)ul  Lov(‘; 

Aral  Love  was  it  not;  y(‘t 

mine  own? 


Of  all  his  talk 
the  ending  I remember  well 
— ’twas  this: 

I dreamed^ 

and  thought  I was  awalce, 

1 wohe^ 

and  thought 

that  I was  dreaming^ 
The  seeming 

proved  to  he  the  reaZ, 
And  it — the  real — 

to  he  the  seeming! 
So  hoped  I it  would  be  with  me, 
for  then  would  Vashti  come. 
At  this  I thought 

to  tell  him  of  my  dreams 
—my  visions 
(For  1 ne’er  had  told  them  yet 
to  any). 

But  the  telling 

had  not  well  begun. 
When  heard  we 

sound  of  music 

And  the  tripping  of  light  feet, 
in  joyous  whirl  of  dancing. 

Now  the  music 

(and  the  dancing) 

Had  a sound  to  me 

familiar; 

And  (before  my  memhy 

brouglit  tlie  older  scene 

before  me), 

Lo!  beside  us  standing, 

with  us  both  there  listening. 
Was  t he  lit-t  le  maidcm  messimger, 
as  in  my  dream  I saw  her! 


This  the  very  place, 

and  all  was  as  I saw  it. 
She  was  standing  as  before, 
in  posture  as  one  tired 
and  wearied. 

Drinking  in  the  harmonies 
of  heaven, 

opened  to  her  senses. 
And  quenching  thirst 

as  of  a famished  soul. 
More;  on  her  shoulders 

was  the  self-same  wrap 
— The  remnant  off  a train 

of  maiden’s  robing 
That,  in  comedy,  before, 
had  warmed  her, 

as  a cape  or  cloak! 
I said  that  I would  question  her 
— before  the  end; 
For  of  a chain  invisible 
that  bound  me  to  my  Yashti, 
was  she  not  a link? 
If  that  which  was  a comedy, 
and  in  a dream, 

were  prophecy,  were  real. 
Much  iriore  must  that  be  real 
that  was  no  play 
— That  was  all  Life 

— all  Soul— all  Love. 
Aye,  now  was  I to  find  my  love 
— to  meet  her^know  her 
— make  her  mine 

— mine  own — my  Yashti. 

Hold!  my  heart  impatient,  hold! 

Too  fast  thine  hoping! 


— This  my  sight  so  real, 

less  than  the  Yision  was 

in  lasting; 

When  the  music  ceased, 
and  paused  the  dancing. 

We  were  waiting  for  a moment, 
in  the  thrill  of  something 
That  was  like  a spell 

upon  the  soul. 
That  none  had  dared 

to  break. 

—While  waiting  thus, 

a voice  took  up  the  harmony 
and  sang  with  feeling  rare 
A song  of  sentiment 

most  tender. 

Words  and  melody 

both  caught  my  ear 
(but  more  the  words); 
Nor  could  I help 

but  listen  to  the  end. 

When  it  was  done 

I turned  me 
To  the  maid  beside  me 

for  the  questioning; 
—But,  O my  heart! 

the  maid  was  gone! 
Nor  need  I say  I chided  me 
for  careless'loss  of  chance 
— Aye,  chanc^  it  was, 

for  surely  ’t'were  not  Fate 
To  fail  its  fnission 

ih  the  very  ending! 
At  the  end  I questioned, 
if  it  were  the  real 

—this  seeming. 


1Q5 


If  a seeming  only, 

then  the  Vision 

were  not  real; 
Were  the  Vision  real, 

could  ^this  my  very  seeing 

be  a vision  only? 

—Days  passed  on 

and  still  no  sign  of  Vashti. 
Then  was  Hope  again  behind 
and  lagging  in  the  race; 
For  Love  ne’er  halted 

in  her  speeding. 
Now,  at  best,  I said, 

could  Hope  but  overtake; 
For  Love  would  never  lag 

nor  fall  behind. 
Nor  would  she  halt 
if  even  Vashti 
were  less  real  than  Life; 
Or,  if  more  real 

than  visions. 
So  again,  I asked  myself: 

Is  not  this  life 
The  dream  of  other  life 

more  real? 

—This  life 

— the  whole  of  it— 

Is  it  the  dream 

of  other  larger,  fuller  life, 

A dream  to  have 

its  morning  and  its  waking; 
If  it  were  true,  there  were, 
e’en  in  tli is  dream  of  living, 

somcl  hing  of  reality. 
And  then  my  heart  gav(‘  answer 
over  all  iny  (lueslioning; 


If  in  what  has  a seeming, 

there  is  something  real. 
This  must  it  be  (if  only  this) 

—it  must  be— Love. 
If  there  be  Love, 

then  Vashti  lives. 
And  so  the  days  had  passed, 

nor  came  to  me  my  Vashti. 
Love  went  on  before 

and  beckoned, 
But  was  Hope  behind 

and  lingering; 

Till,  at  last,  her  smile  was  gone 
—was  smile  of  Hope— 
For  she  was  not 

within  my  vision  now. 
The  days  have  passed; 

and  this  the  ending 

of  my  dream 
—My  dream  of  Love 

— my  thought  of  Life! 
Now  may  I sing 

(as  did  the  lover 

in  my  dream): 
0 Glorious  Night  I 

O Love  of  3 fine! 

But  this  I may  not  sing 

(as  he  had  sung): 

0 Star  of  Hope! 

0 World  of  Joy! 

For  Hope  and  Joy  are  not  for  me, 
who  lost  ere  yet  he  found! 
To  me  it  seems  the  way  of  Life 
but  h'adeth  into  Shadows 
And  is  lost 

ere  yet  Tis  well  begim 


m 


— Ere  yet  the  brilliance 

of  the  Light 
Hath  made  its  home 

within  the  Soul! 
So  in  the  Shadow 

of  my  hopeless  Love 

— my  loveless  Life — 

I write  this  story 

of  my  dreaming; 

And  the  while  I 

pen  the  words, 

My  mind  is  surging 

with  the  melody 
That  in  my  Vision 

haunted  me 
—That  strange,  sweet, 

sad  Eefrain  of  Life! 
So  ends  it  all; 

and  naught  is  left  but  Love, 
and  memory  of  a dream! 


A year  has  passed 

since  I have  written 
What  is  gone  before, 

as  now  it  stands; 
And  I have  yet  to  tell 
the  strangest  of  it  all 
— the  strangest,  but  the  best. 
It  chanced 

that  on  an  autumn  day 
I was  alone  and  wheeling. 


When  the  sky  was  darkening 

in  the  promise  of  a storm. 
While  quickening  speed, 

in  hope  to  reach  some  shelter. 
Saw  I three  before  me 

who  with  same  intent 
Were  wheeling  fast 

along  the  way. 

Ere  I had  overtaken  them, 
it  chanced  that  one 

—a  maiden — 

Slackened  speed 

and  fell  behind. 
And  in  a moment 

had  dismounted 
For  some  mending  of  the  gear 
that  answered  ill 

her  need  for  haste. 

Now  at  the  warning 

of  a thunder  peal 

and  drops  of  rain, 

I stayed  my  progress  at  her  side 
and  quick  dismounting, 
to  the  maiden  said: 
‘‘My  wheel — please  take  it 
—I  will  follow 

with  your  own.” 
She  turned  inquiringly, 

and  in  her  upward  glance 
I saw— O heart  of  mine! 

— ’t  was  Yashti! 
On  her  face  was  smile 

of  recognition. 
And  it  blended  with  a look 

of  wonder,  welcome. 


JQ7 


Then  she  quick  obeyed 
my  thought, 

and  mounted, 
Waiting  but  to  speak 

her  gratefulness. 

In  way  that  made 

an  easy  pleasure 

of  my  little  duty. 
Then  she  followed  on 

to  overtake  the  friends 
Who  only  now 

had  noted  her  delay, 

and  back  were  turning. 
Nor  was  I behind  them  far, 
for  quickly  had  I seen 
The  fault  that  hindered 
in  her  wheeling, 
and  had  made  adjustment. 
Nor  is  need  of  saying 

that  a smile  before  me 
drew  me  faster  on 
Than  did  the  elements 

of  Nature  drive  me. 


Aye,  and  now  no  need 

to  make  the  telling  long 

ot  all  that  followed. 
In  the  tinding  of  my  Vashti 

was  the  whole 
— Was  nop(j  r(*n(‘W(‘(l, 

was  Lov(‘  nia(l(‘  glad, 

was  Lite  and  meaning. 


Ere  they  reached  the  shelter, 

I had  overtaken  them^ 
And,  in  her  thoughtful  way, 
had  Yashti 

Dropped  again  behind, 

and  welcomed  me  beside  her. 
At  the  shelter,  I was  given 
hearty  greeting 
And  acquaintance 

with  the  friends. 
But  there  I wondered 

at  our  meeting. 

And  I questioned— 

was  I dreaming, 

When  I saw 

these  friends  of  Yashti 
Were  her  sister  Euth, 

and  Jacob! 


Now  did  time  speed  on 

and  faster  than  before, 
For  Yashti  oft  was  wheeling 
in  those  days; 
And  she  was  ne’er  alone 
— nor  I when  V^ashti  wheeled. 
And  there  were  those 

who  called  us  lovers; 
Nor  had  I a thought 

to  make  pretense 
Of  any  protest 

’gainst  this  naming 

of  our  friendship. 

Ihit  to  Yashti 
I had  yet  to  speak  in  words 


Though  it  had  seemed  to  me 
I oft  had  spoken 
more  than  words  could  utter, 
And  that  Yashti  knew 

the  language  of  my  soul. 


One  day  when  we  alone 

were  having  sweet 

companionship 
We  spoke  of  many  things, 

and,  of  them  all, 
Most  in  my  thought 

was  this— 

I questioned:  “Saw  you  me 
before  the  friendly  storm 
and  accident 
That  gave  me  privilege 
so  welcome 

—had  we  met  before?” 
(For  I was  thinking 

of  the  Vision 
And  my  dream 

of  finding  her). 
“I  saw  you  in  the  office 

when  you  came  so  suddenly 
nor  expected. 

And  away  again  as  quickly 

and  no  word  explaining!” 
“But  was  I in  any  office  once 
and  saw  you  there?” 

I asked  in  seeming  doubt. 
“Do  you  forget  so  scon!” 

and  saying  this,  she  laughed 
—A  rippling  laugh 

that  was  her  own 


—One  more  than  music 

to  my  ear. 

And  one  that  thrilled  my  being, 
loved  I it  so  well. 
“Nay,  I do  not  forget,”  I said; 
“nor  could  it  be, 

with  face  of  one  so  fair 
As  that  I saw, 

to  haunt  my  memory. 
I do  not  forget, 

nor  said  I that  I saw  you  not. 
Nor  had  not  left 

in  manner  strange 

and  sudden; 
Only  questioned  I if  we  had  met 
— if  you  had  seen  me 

e’er  before 

—Or  ere  the  day  we  met 

when  wheeling?” 
Yashti  laughed  again: 

‘A  riddle  it  must  be,”  she  said, 
“One  fitting  well  the  mystery 
Of  so  strange  appearing 

and  a stranger  going. 
Nor  have  I a thought 

to  chide  you 
For  your  holding  back 

the  answer  at  your  will; 
But  riddle  it  must  surely  be, 
and  one  I may  not  solve 
alone.” 

“Then  may  I help  you?” 

questioned  I; 

And  Yashti  answered  gaily: 
“You  the  answer  have  already 
— ’tis  your  riddle 


109 


But  when  she  paused, 


And  no  solving  do  you  need; 
but  you  may  tell  me, 
for  no  clue  have  I 

for  solving.” 

“Nay,”  I said, 

“it  is  my  riddle, 
yet  another’s 

—not  alone  mine  own; 
And  so  the  solving 

is  for  hothy 

Now,  neither  can,  alone, 

find  answer, 
Nor  can  all  the  world 

outside. 

As  you  have  need  of  help 

of  mine. 

So  I have  need 

for  thine.” 

I said  the  words 

with  tone  that  spoke 
A deeper  feeling 

than  the  thought 

of  careless  riddle. 
With  the  tone  that  fitted  well 
the  riddle  of  our  lives 
—of  Vashti’s  and  mine  own. 
'J'lu'ri  Vasliti  quiet  grew, 

nor*answered. 
“M;iy  I hclf)  youV” 

(lucstioncd  I again, 

iti  pleading  tone. 
V'aslil  i wait ed 
for  a moment-  Iong(‘r, 

t hen  she  said: 
“We*ll  t ry  alorje, 

• a lit  1 h*  longer,  t hen  ” 


I said: 

“Then  failing  answer, 

you  will  help  me,Yashti, 
And  it  will  come 

—the  answer.” 
Now  she  ne’er  before 

had  heard  me 

Speak  her  name 

in  manner  so  familiar; 
Yet,  though  startled, 

as  if  in  surprise. 

No  protest  did  she  make 

to  my  assurance. 

Then  was  I in  mood 

to  say,  “My  Yashti,” 

But  I waited, 

wisely,  as  I thought. 

In  fear  of  answer 

like  that  made  before 
By  Yashti 

(as  I dreamed  it  was). 
Yea,  I had  gone  full  far 

already. 

And  must  patient  be 

a little  longer. 

Nor  was  patience 

hard  or  heavy. 
As  in  all  the  days 

when  I Io])e  was  gone; 
For  \'asht  i gave  me 

sweet  com  pa  n ionsh  i p, 

and  smiled  upon  me. 

Now  was  IIop(‘ 

fast  ov('rtaking  Love 


(Though  Love 

had  long  outlasted  it). 
Not  many  days  had  passed 
ere  I again 

Had  sweet  companionship 

with  Yashti. 

“Now  a question,  if  I may,” 

I said, 

“Did  e’er  you  see  me  other  time 
than  in  the  office 

near  your  chair?” 

And  Yashti  answered: 
“Sometimes  I have  thought 
I knew  you  long  before. 
At  times  it  so  has  seemed 

to  me. 

And  then  I tell  myself, 

‘Not  so;’ 

For  I had  never  known  one 

and  forgotten. 

I do  not  forget 

the  friends  I meet. 
When  once  I know  them 

— know  and — like. 
Nay,  though  you  seem 

a friend  of  old, 

It  must  not  be 

that  we  have  met  before.” 
“If  you  remember  best 

the  friends  you  like. 
Was  I,  mayhap,  one  to  be  known 
and  unremembered?” 
So  I questioned 

and  in  playful  way, 

but  earnestly. 


“Nay,  you  are  one 

to  be  remembered  well,” 

she  said; 

And  then  her  eyes  fell 

’neath  my  questioning  gaze. 
But  ere  I spoke  again, 

another  word  had  Yashti: 
“Who  had  told  you 

of  my  waiting  there. 

And  of  the  puzzle 

in  my  thought? 
—How  chanced  it  that  you  came 
— by  accident?” 
“ ’T  is  yet  to  me  a riddle,” 

was  my  answer, 
“Nor  one  easy  for  my  solving, 

as  it  seems; 

For,  was  it  real,  my  going? 

How  I found  my  way? 
And  how  I knew  the  need? 

— I wait  the  answer. 
Only  do  I know 

that  some  strange  power 

was  drawing  me, 
— Full  willing  to  be  led 

by  such  sweet  influence.” 
But  Yashti  answered 

not  in  keeping 
with  my  thought. 
She  said:  “I  know  you  came, 
yet  sometimes  it  has  seemed 
’t  was  all  a dream. 
— Did  it  seem  real 

to  you?” 

“I  thought  it  real,” 

I said. 


“But  found  that  I,  indeed, 
had  only  dreamed 

of  going  to  you  I” 
“iSTay,”  she  said, 

“you  were  not  dreaming 
— Know  we  not  and  well 

that  neither  dreamed, 

and  all  was  real?” 
“Aye,  all  was  real,”  I answered, 
now  in  happy  mood, 

^ Y or  you  are  real ^ 

whom  I had  thought 

a dream — 

Unless  it  be  indeed, 

that  we  are  dreaming  now!” 
Then  Yashti  laughed  again 
her  silvery  laugh 

bewitching  to  my  heart. 
“Methinks  this  is  no  dream,” 
she  said, 

“For  you  seem  real  as  I, 
and  if  we  both  are  real, 

we  are  not  dreaming!” 
“Aye,  unless  it  be,”  I said, 

“that  only  dreams  are  real 
and  all  tlie  rest  imagined. 
—Let  us  prove  the  dream 

tliat  was  no  dream, 
Or  test  the  rc^al, 

tliat  s(‘eme(l  a dream: 

Wliat  was  yonr  ciurst  ion 
that  1 answ(‘S(‘(l 

in  t li(‘  olhc(‘?” 
“This;  ‘What  is  f)ur  Lil(‘ 

— its  jncaning 

and  its  i)iirpe»se?' " 


“And  my  answer?” 

“On  the  sheet 

that  lay  before  me, 
With  my  hand  you  wrote: 

‘ ’T  is  by  self-effort  we  progress 
— advance  to  higher  planes 
— to  larger  life.’  ” 

“And  then?” 

“Next  I had  questioned 

if  there  were  no  Love-Life?” 

“And  my  answer?” 

“ ‘Truly  there  is  one,’  you  said, 
‘Both  here  and  otherwhere;’ 

’t  was  thus  you  answered,” 
“Asked  you  nothing  naore?” 
“Yes,  this:  ‘What  is  the  best 
in  Life?’” 

“And  what  my  writing 
in  response?” 

But  Yashti  held  her  answer. 
“Tell  me,  lest  in  dream,  again, 

I lose  the  real!” 
“ ‘ ’T  is  Love,’  you  wrote,” 

she  said. 

“And  is  it  not  the  best 

—was  I not  right?” 
So  questioned  I of  A'ashti, 
and  my  voice  grew  tender, 
over  my  controlling, 
\hishti  made  some  halt 

to  saying, 

ihit  I held  her  to  my  (luestion 
t ill  she  answer(‘(l; 
and  Iht  word  was— “Yes.” 
Tlnai  wait('d  I noloiigm* 

in  t li(‘  daring  of  my  fate: 


112 


And  said: 

“But  only  is  it  best  of  all /or  me 
if  it  be  Vashti’s  love; 

— Will  Yasliti  tell  me 

I may  have  the  best? 
O Yashti,  say  not  nay 

to  this  my  seeking — 

For  it  is  my  best  I ask; 
aye,  ’tis  my  all  in  life, 

all  else  would  be  a dream.” 
Then  was  her  hand  in  mine, 
and,  in  her  answer,  came  to  me 
all  1 had  willed  to  have 
— So  it  had  come  to  me,  at  last, 
by  seeking,  finding. 

It  had  come  by  law  unerring 
—now  was  Yashti  real 

—and  mine. 


Beside  me,  while  I write 

the  ending 

Of  this  story  of  my  dream, 

(if  one  may  call  a thing  so  real, 
a dream,) 

A woman  of  rare  beauty  sits, 
and  in  her  arms  a babe, 
While  she — the  mother— croons, 
and  sweetly— O,  so  sweetly, 
and  as  tenderly. 
The  lullaby  I heard  before, 

heard  in  my  vision  real. 
I love  this  woman  and  her  babe, 
and  they  are  all  the  world 

to  me. 


As  runs  the  lover’s  song: 

“No  world  were  this  old  world, 
if  it  were  not  for  these 

—my  loved  ones.” 
Need  I say  that  Yashti 

is  the  name  of  her 

—the  mother— 
Singing  to  our  babe 

in  sweetest  slumber 

of  its  life? 

And  we  have  named  the  babe 

— we  call  her  Ethel. 
Across  the  way 

has  been  prepared 

a little  home; 
And  soon  within  its  walls 

will  come  to  dwell  two  lovers. 
These  are  Jacob, 
who  is  in  our  hearts  a brother. 
And  our  sister  Buth, 

who  soon  will  be  his  wife. 
Beside  this  home 

is  yet  another,  dear  to  us. 
Where  live  the  older  ones 

in  restful  comfort, 

and  with  John. 
And  John  still  mourns, 

but  not  as  once. 
For  he  has  found  a Hope 
that  links  the  Future 

with  the  Present. 
Aye,  with  John 

has  Love  and  Hope 

been  reconciled; 
And  he  has  found, 

and  in  this  life  itself, 


A joy,  a purpose, 

and  a meaning. 
John  is  well  beloved  by  all, 

by  men  and  maids. 
For  he  is  ever  true 

and  loyal. 

Fellowship,  and  much,  has  he 
with  woman 
— Such  companionship 
as  has  no  thought 
of  tend'rest  ties  of  Love 
— No  deeper  sentiment 

than  is  the  warmth 

of  friendship; 

— ’T  is  the  fellowship  of  humans 
—brothers,  sisters 
Of  the  larger  Family 

Divine. 

And  in  his  life  and  bearing, 
John  is  teaching  others 
That  on  higher  planes, 

where  man  and  woman 
Shall  have  risen 

to  their  larger  powers, 


There  is  joy 

in  soul  companionship, 
in  fellowship. 
Between  the  man  and  woman, 
that  is  kin  to  Love. 


So  ends  this  Story 

of  my  Vision 
—Ends  as  Life  must  end 

in  some  beginning  new; 
And  that  beginning 

well  may  mean 

a larger  living. 

More;  to  me, 

this  larger  living  here 
Will  ever  mean 

the  happiness  of  Love 
—Of  Manhood  true, 

of  Wifehood,  Motherhood, 
And  (type  of  newer  Life) 

of  Babes. 


114 


AFTERMATH. 


We  speak  a truism  when  we  say  that  life’s  journey  Is 
one  of  struggle,  one  of  some  hardship,  of  buffeting  currents, 
of  overcoming  obstacles.  When  we  question  what  is  the 
purpose  of  it  all,  none  may  deny  if  we  answer  that  it  is  that 
he  who  engages  in  this  struggle  shall  make  progress. 

If  the  struggle  be  for  every  human  being,  let  us  say 
that  it  is  for  every  human  being  to  have  the  good  of  it— that 
every  man  and  woman  shall  have  all  opportunity  for  progress. 
That  no  bar  in  the  way  of  one’s  progress  be  placed  there 
by  another,  is  the  least  of  all  to  ask. 

Let  us  go  further  and  say  it  is  a praiseworthy  desire  or 
ambition,  as  well  as  a right,  for  every  soul  born  of  woman  to 
strive  to  reach  the  highest  level  of  its  possibilities. 

At  the  best,  the  journey  of  life  is  a difficult  one  and 
one  beset  with  dangers.  There  are  chances,  many  to  one,  of 
losing  the  way;  and  it  may  be  that  the  chances  are  only  one 
to  many  that  it  shall  be  found  again;— unless  it  be  after  a 
long  time  of  wandering  (for  we  must  hope  that  no  one’s  way 
will  be  lost  beyond  finding). 

Be  that  as  it  may,  one  thing  is  clear.  If  the  obstacles 
in  the  way  of  us  are  insurmountable  at  all,  it  is  only  by  the 
force  of  will— determined  and  persistent — of  will  so  indomit- 
able as  almost  to  prove  the  divine  power  within  the  soul. 


Like  a race  is  this  journey  of  progress,  solitary  and 
independent  though  it  may  seem  to  be  in  its  character. 
Rather  is  it  not  a series  of  races?  If  not  at  the  beginning, 
the  time  comes  to  the  many,  before  they  have  trudged  far 
along  life’s  pathway,  when  it  is  forced  upon  them  to  compete 
with  their  fellows. 

As  fellow  travelers,  let  us  say  that  our  world  is  divided 
into  two  great  camps.  At  least  for  purposes  of  comparison, 
this  division  is  one  very  real. 

One  of  these  camps  is  made  up  of  those  who  are  weaker 
than  are  those  in  the  other  camp.  It  is  made  up  of  indi- 
viduals who  are  weaker  physically,  almost  beyond  controversy. 
Are  they  weaker  intellectually?  Some  say  yes;  but  we  say, 
not  of  necessity.  Let  us  admit  that  under  the  existing 
conditions — forced  and  unnecessary,  it  may  be,  they  are  actu- 
ally and  practically  weaker  intellectually.  But  in  other  ways 
they  are  stronger  At  least  they  are  stronger  spiritually,  if 
only  under  the  existing  conditions. 

In  all  the  long  past  this  weaker  camp  has  been  under 
control  of  the  other  and  stronger  one.  In  all  the  long 
centuries,  have  limitations  been  put  upon  it,  and  exactions  been 
made  of  it.  Of  the  limitations,  has  been  traditional  con- 
ventionalism; of  the  requirements,  actual  devotion  to  the 
interests  of  the  dominant  camp. 

As  to  this  devotion,  it  has  almost  been  demanded  of 
the  weaker  camp  that  the  need  for  self-progress  of  the  indi- 
viduals within  it  be  forgotten  in  the  desire  to  favor  and  assist 
the  prr)gr(‘ss  of  those  in  the  stronger  camp.  Almost  have  the 
weaker  ones  forgotten  that  they  had  a race  to  make  for 
themselves,  and  that  it  was  a race  not  to  be  made  by  proxy. 

One  may  almost  say  that  a dis])arity  always  has  existed, 
and  tliat  it  was  maintained  inexorably  by  the  master  camp, 
and  lias  Ixnm  rc^slgmxlly  submitted  to,  by  the  other  and 
w'(‘aker  eanii). 

In  this  |)rogr(‘ss,  gr(‘at(‘r  or  l(\ss,  that  both  camps  liave 
made,  there  has  Ixxm  om;  d(‘V(‘lo])in(‘nt  touching  upon  the 


very  disparity  of  which  we  speak.  It  is  an  awakening—an 
awakening  to  the  enormity  and  unreasonableness  of  the  dis- 
parity that  has  existed.  The  awakening  has  not  been  con- 
fined to  one  camp,  and  it  has  been  almost  sudden. 

With  this  awakening,  partial  and  recent  though  it  may 
be,  there  already  has  been  marked  progress  toward  emanci- 
pation of  the  element  that  has  been  under  limitations, 
repressions  and  exactions. 

This  result  is  in  line  with  general  progress.  Such 
progress  is  the  order  of  the  day.  It  means  changes  that  are 
revolutionary.  It  means  ultimate  and  early  disintegration  of 
all  blind,  unreasoning  forces — forces  of  error,  superstition, 
tyrannical  oppression,  selfish  exactions,  old-time  prerogatives, 
assumed  superiorities,  class  privileges,  monopolies  of  birth- 
rights. 

In  this  purifying  of  the  air,  in  this  justifying  of  all 
claims,  in  this  right-setting  of  wrongs,  in  this  explosion  of 
fallacies,  there  will  be  by-and-by  nothing  left  of  these  forces 
that  have  always  impeded  progress.  Among  the  things  going 
and  to  go,  there  is  one  thing  that  could  not  long  continue  to 
exist  as  the  solitary  unrighted  wrong — the  only  unrevolution- 
ized anomaly.  What  is  that  one  thing?  Do  you  ask?  Upon 
my  word,  I believe  you  do.  I will  tell  you: 

It  is  that  disparity  of  which  I have  been  speaking. 

Almost  does  it  seem  that  some  of  us  look  to  see  this 
anomaly  continue  intact  all  through  the  clash  of  the  break- 
ing up  of  worlds  of  old  traditions  and  conditions;  and  the 
reason  for  our  unpreparedness  for  a change  may  be  that  for  a 
long  time  there  was  little  sign  of  any  breaking  up  at  all. 
This  has  indeed  been  one  of  the  most  conservative  of  all 
forces;  but  its  strength  seems  now  well-nigh  spent.  The 
break  has  been  made  at  last,  and  it  is  its  very  suddenness  and 
its  rapidity  of  movement  that  makes  us  draw  our  hands 
across  our  eyes  to  find  if  we  are  awake  or  dreaming. 

Let  me  tell  you —confreres  of  the  major  camp— we  are 
not  dreaming;  what  our  eyes  see  to-day  is  cold  actuality,  and 


we  shall  nave  all  opportunity  to  get  full  accustomed  to  it  all 
— and  more.  So  rapid  is  the  movement— though  peaceful  the 
revolution — we  well  may  question  if  it  is  not  now  being  proven 
that  spirituality  is  a force  greater  than  physical  strength  and 
intellectual  powers  combined!  Events  are  answering  that 
(with  right  in  its  favor)  it  is  indeed  the  greater  force.  It  is 
stronger  in  the  end — even  if  it  be  long,  long,  long  in  over- 
coming the  regnant  force  of  what  has  been  well  established 
in  the  minds  of  men  as  a finality. 

Let  us,  in  plain  words,  localize  the  application.  Let  us 
admit  that  this  century  almost  closed  upon  woman  enthralled 
in  the  limitations  of  exacting  conventionalities  and  tradi- 
tions. In  numberless  ways  has  she  been  burdened  and 
hampered,  even  beyond  the  necessities  of  her  being.  Though 
she  had  to  run  a race,  even  as  man,  for  the  very  same  need 
of  life-preservation,  as  well  as  for  her  own  growth— her 
progress,  has  she  not  been  handicapped  and  obstacled  in  a 
hundred  ways  where  man  is  free? 

It  is  a question,  if  man  so  afflicted  would  have  had 
the  courage  to  live. 

In  all  her  weakness— burdened,  hampered,  handicapped, 
is  it  not  true  that  this  glorious  century  is  now  closing  upon 
the  drama  of  woman  contending  (against  the  conservatism  of 
resistance)  actually  for  the  privilege  of  right  of  way,  in  the 
race? 

Almost  I might  have  written  tragedy  for  drama. 

It  is  true,  fellows,  and  the  time  has  come  for  you  to 
see  this  triitli  in  all  its  bareness  and  ugliness,  and  to  admit 
that  it  is  an  unwholesome  fact  that  demands  recognition.  It 
is  time,  too,  to  admit  that  whatever  excuse  there  was  for  our 
fathers,  a knowl(‘dge  of  the  truth  has  robbed  you  and  me  of 
even  the  excuse  of  ignorance. 

Wanting  (*v(‘n  so  ])oor  an  excuse,  we  well  may  learn 
wliat  is  (lemaud(‘(l  of  us. 

An  appeal  to  man  that  involves  the  rights  of  woman, 
ouglit  to  be  made  on  the  liiglier  ground  of  justice.  That 


would  be  the  ground  for  an  effective  appeal  to  woman  in  the 
interest  of  man.  But,  methinks,  there  is  other  ground  for  a 
more  effective  appeal  to  man  for  woman’s  sake.  And  that? 
What  else  could  it  be  than  that  of  self-interest? 

Then  let  us  to  that  lower  level;  for  man  is  in  question 

here. 

Remember  that,  whether  we  will  or  no,  all  that  will 
be  asked  of  us  is  coming,  and  quickly.  So  our  virtue  will 
yet  be  a necessity. 

Let  us  then  make  our  peace  with  the  inevitable. 

Let  us  determine  that  now  and  forever  woman  shall  be 
her  own  voice,  and  need  no  arbiter.  In  whatever  strength, 
of  superiority  that  may  be  ours,  let  us  vow  allegiance  to  the 
incoming  force. 

Yes,  the  inevitable  is  upon  us.  The  spirit  of  the  age  is 
upon  woman,  and  her  strength,  under  the  spur  of  the 
Philistine  assaults  of  the  traditions  of  centuries,  will  burst 
her  bonds.  Her  spiritual  strength  has  been  even  greater  than 
that  strength  which  is  of  the  order  of  Samson. 

The  spirit  of  fair  play  may  not  be  in  us;  and  we  may 
have  a hope  to  deny  her,  as  we  have  done  in  the  centuries 
past.  Then  let  our  colder  judgment  come  to  our  aid,  and 
make  us  her  champion  for  the  good  it  will  be  in  the  end  to 
ourselves.  If  within  the  deeper  heart  of  us  we  can  rouse  this 
spirit  of  championship,  though  we  do  it  for  our  own  good — 
it  will  be  of  help  to  our  sister.  Now  is  the  call  and  oppor- 
tunity for  yeoman  service  to  woman  in  the  line  of  man’s  own 
interests. 

Listen.  It  continues  to  be  possible  for  us  to  impede 
woman’s  progress.  We  may  make  her  every  forward  step  a 
hardship  and  her  path  one  of  thorns  to  the  flesh.  Boys  with 
early  promise  of  the  brutal  masculinity  of  a perverted  man- 
hood, may  hoot  and  jeer  at  each  innovation,  and  cause  the 
sensitive  heart  heroic  of  devoted  martyrdom  to  bleed.  Men 
may  hurt  by  every  form  of  flippant  act  of  unmanliness— by 
inconclusive  smart  talk,  by  sorry  jesting,  by  ill-bred  stare, 


We  can  hurt  and  sting— God  only  knows  how  much— but  we 
cannot  stop  the  movement. 

The  blue-laws  of  Connecticut  are  incomprehensible  to  us 
to-day,  and  now,  near  the  close  of  the  century,  the  last  of 
them  (long  a dead  letter)  has  been  repealed — forever  repealed, 
in  mild,  considerate  derision.  And  it  may  not  be  far  in  the 
next  century— if  indeed,  it  come  not  now— when  our  own  stupid 
battling  against  woman’s  progress  shall  be  full  evidence 
against  us  of  something  at  best  to  be  considerately  pardoned 
because  of  the  coarse  animal  within  us.  And  this  is  our 
plea— that  we  coin  some  virtue  of  our  necessity,  and  bow 
to  the  inevitable— which  tliis  time  is  the  fair  and  the  in- 
vincible. 

Our  time  is  short,  and  let  us  make  hay  while  the  sun 
shines.  My  stock  of  proverbs  of  selfishness  is  unequal  to  the 
need;  but  there  is  something  more  to  remind  ourselves  of: 

Always  will  woman — however  advanced,  however  robed — 
be  woman.  Always  will  she  delight  in  the  burden  of  service 
and  devotion— it  is  in  the  very  soul  of  her  to  do  it.  Always 
will  the  voice  of  a child  touch  her  heart,  the  color  of  a ribbon 
please  her  fancy,  the  flash  of  a gem  sparkle  her  eye. 

We  always  have  loved  her,  and  even  while  we  have 
abused  her,  we  have  said  in  our  hearts— God  bless  her! 
Always  have  we  been  willing  to  spill  our  blood  to  protect  her 
— from  others.  Always  has  her  smile  been  a flash  of  heaven’s 
light,  and  the  denial  of  it  has  made  this  world  almost  too 
bleak  for  life. 

Come,  then,  let  us  reason  together;  and  in  our  bowing 
to  the  inevitable,  let  this  be  our  speech  to  the  invincible: 

“What  you  shall  do,  and  eat,  and  wear,  and  how  you 
shall  live,  shall  be  forever  more  a matter  of  your  own  'choos- 
ing. With  your  choice,  at  all  times,  we  shall  have  nothing 
to  do.  Only  when  we  see  you  hampered,  hindered,  limited  or 
burderuid  by  any  who  have  no  right  to  impede  your  progress, — 
only  then  shall  your  affair  be  ours,  and  it  be  our  right  to 
interfere.  When  this  comes,  and  you  need  championship, 


may  it  be  our  good  fortune  to  be  of  those  whose  champion- 
ship will  win  your  smile. 

In  all  ways  of  your  own  choosing,  you  shall  be  your  own 
arbiter.  Some  of  us  shall  make  this  our  vow;  and  some  there 
may  be  who  will  dally  and  hesitate.  If  so,  when  the  time 
shall  come  for  the  smile  of  ai^proval,  it  will  be  their  lot  to 
envy  others  who,  however  little  more  deserving  at  heart  they 
may  have  been,  will  have  had  the  good  sense  which  meets 
the  reward  of  better  deserving.  And  the  thought  comes  to 
me  here,  that  even  this  privilege  of  championship  may  be  lost 
to  us;  for  if  woman  shall  have  to  depend  upon  her  inde- 
pendence to  save  herself  from  injustice  at  our  own  hands,  she 
will  have  independence  enough  to  decline  our  championship  in 
the  saving  of  her  from  injustice  at  the  hands  of  others. 

Sorry  will  be  the  day — if  it  come— when  the  privilege 
and  pleasure  of  helping  woman  is  lost  to  me — because  of  the 
unworthiness  of  my  manhood! 

Brothers,  give  heed. 

A pitiable  plea  is  this,  methinks,  when  remembering 
the  claims  of  woman  upon  us.  The  writer  has  had  mother, 
sisters,  wife  and  daughters.  What  there  is  left  to  him  of 
femininity— mother  and  daughters — were  it  taken  from  him, 
where  is  the  vocabulary  to  express  the  utter  desolation  of 
heart  that  it  would  mean! 

And  who  is  he  that  hath  not  in  life,  or  memory,  some- 
thing to  bind  him  closely  into  one  great  bond  of  sympathy 
with  his  thought  through  devotion  to  at  least  a mother? 

If  on  this  beautiful,  green  earth  there  be  one  so  callous 
as  to  be  unsympathetic  at  this  point— at  this  touch  of  nature 
— God  pity  him  for  his  trackless  wanderings.  His  loss  is 
punishment  enough  and' we  have  no  blame  for  him. 

Surely,  this  itself  is  enough  to  lift  the  appeal  above  the 
level  of  self  and  self-interest.  Surely  some  of  you  will 
respond,  and  say  that  it  is  the  higher  appeal  that  is  the 
stronger  one.  For  any  to  do  this  is  to  afford  a rare  new  hope 
— a hope  for  the  emancipation  also— of  the  masculine, 


Lo!  the  spirit 

of  a heart  heroic, 

Who  in  his  life  was  weak 
as  men  are  weak, 

But  strong 

as  man  is  strong. 

Is  speaking  from  the  century  gone, 
as  one  illumined. 
His  voice  is  eloquent 

for  woman  whom  he  loved. 
This  is  his  pleading: 

“While  the  fate  of  empires 

and  the  fall  of  kings 

engage  our  thoughts, 
While  quacks  of  state 

produce  their  plans. 

While  even  children  lisp 

the  rights  of  man. 

Other  rights 

have  merit  of  attention; 

Give  them  heed; 

—they  are  the  rights  of  woman.” 

“Truce  with  kings 

and  truce  with  constitutions, 
With  bloody  armaments 

and  revolutions;” 

Other  majesty 

in  thine  own  day  had  sway 
And  (blessed  be 

thy  wayward,  gentle  memory, 

()  Robert  Burns!) 

Will  have  more  sway 

in  days  to  come 
Than  in  our  day,  or  tliine, 

— tlie  Majesty  of  Woman, 


A CONVERSATION. 


Said  his  friend:  “Your  book  seems  to  have  found  some 
favor  with  the  critics.” 

“Yes,”  answered  the  book-maker,  “with  the  limited  circle 
of  friendly  ones  who  have  read  the  manuscript,  at  least. 
Particularly,”  he  continued,  laughingly,  “those  parts  of  the 
book  that  I did  not  write.” 

The  expression  of  the  friend’s  face  was  an  interrogation. 

The  book-maker  explained:  “What  do  I mean?  This,  that 
in  the  writing  I freely  used  the  work  of  other  writers  where  it 
served  my  purpose.” 

“Ah!  then  the  book  is  not  all  original!” 

“Not  wholly;  and  if  I needed  justification  for  the  use  of 
outside  material,  it  has  come  in  the  unstinted  praise  that  has 
been  given  the  very  portions  borrowed.  I thought  it  useless, 
for  instance,  to  attempt  to  write  anything  better  about  love 
than  Boyesen  wrote,  and  I used  it.  One  friendly  critic  who 
returned  my  manuscript  with  sundry  comments,  had  written 
along  the  margin  of  Boyesen’s  thought:  ‘This  is  sublime.’  ” 

“Did  he  know  who  wrote  it?” 

“No  he  supposed  it  was  all  mine— so  with  the  proof-reader. 
Stoically  he  read  till  we  reached  that  same  passage,  and  said, 
‘This  is  fine.’  When  I told  him  that  it  was  not  purely  original, 
he  said,  ‘Blessed  be  plagiarism.’  ” 

“Did  he  mean,  that  your  reproduction  of  the  thought 
would  immortalize  it?” 

“He  did  not  explain.  He  may  have  meant  that  it  was  the 
‘saving  clause’  of  the  book  up  to  that  point!” 

“Boyesen’s  work  is  very  captivating,”  said  his  friend,  “I 
never  see  his  name  that  I do  not  read  what  it  stands  for.” 


The  book-maker  grew  sad  and  contemplative.  “At  the 
very  time  I had  in  my  thought  the  pleasure  of  writing  to 
Boyesen  mv  acknowledgment  of  obligation,  came  the  unwelcome 
news  of  his  sudden  going  out.” 

“Well,  your  book  is  not  all  borrowed,”  said  his  friend, 
generously,  ‘ and  I doubt  not  it  has  original  passages  equal  to 
what  is  borrowed.” 

‘'  Very  kind  of  you,”  said  the  gratified  book-maker.  What 
part  did  you  like  best?” 

“The  Scroll— Vashti,  the  King,  and  the  feasters,  and  the 
lesson  it  teaches.” 

“Ah!  that,  taken  from  the  Bible,  is  the  least  original  of 
all,”  said  the  book-maker,  disappointedly. 

“Well,  at  least  you  must  have  credit  for  frankness,”  said 
his  friend,  consolingly. 

“Not  necessarily,”  answered  the  book-maker,  persistently 
“It  would  be  folly  for  one  to  draw  upon  others,  so  freely  as  I 
have  done,  and  not  acknowledge  the  source.  A lady  who  read 
my  manuscript  said  that  a part  of  it  reminded  her  of  Prentice 
Mulford.  I told  her  that  might  easily  be  true,  for  I had  drawn 
it  mainly  from  a chapter  of  his,  on  ‘Dress.’” 

“Was  all  the  rest  original?” 

“No,  an  artist  friend  brought  back  the  manuscript,  saying 
he  was  delighted,  especially  with  the  song  sung  by  the  old  man 
whose  plaint  was  “the  old  path  up  the  hill:  gone  forever.”  It 
liappens  that  this  is  one  of  the  only  two  songs  that  are  not 
original. 

“So  it  goes.  I owe  the  best  part  of  the  thought  taught 
by  the  teaciier,  ‘dreamy,  introspective,’  to  Birch  Arnold,  taken 
iroin  the  ej)h(‘meral  pages  of  a metropolitan  newspaper.  A 
friendly  critic  wrote  of  tliis  part  as  ‘true  and  helpful  gospel,’ 
and  said  that  ‘nothing  but  higliest  praise  could  be  given  to 
tljose  f)ages.’  ” 

“Sliak(*si)(‘are  was  a plagiarist,  too,”  said  his  friend, 
iiclpfully. 

‘‘Nay,  min(‘  fritmd,  tliere  w(‘re  no  comfort  in  that 


thought.  In  one’s  right  mind,  one  would  not  choose  to  be  a 
plagiarist,  even  with  so  great  an  example  as  a Shakespeare 
But  Shakespeare  was  no  plagiarist.  Only  as  a boy  was  he  a 
poacher,  and  it  was  not  in  literary  preserves. 

“And  I,  in  my  humbler  way,  did  not  plagiarize.  All 
writing  should  be  impersonal.  The  personality  of  the  writer 
does  not  exist  except  through  his  work.  It  is  at  best  remote, 
and  incidental  to  that  work.  From  the  higher  standpoint,  it 
should  be  the  purpose  of  a writer  to  produce  the  very  best  work 
within  his  powers.  If  by  the  use  of  material  available  from 
outside  sources,  one  may  better  his  own  work,  it  is  in  the 
interest  of  the  reader  that  it  be  done.” 

“You  do  not  like  plagiarism,”  said  his  friend,  in  a 
humorous  vein,  “you  favor,  rather,  a process  that  would  be 
called  ‘conscious  cerebration.’  ” 

“That  is,  indeed,  my  literary  creed,”  responded  the  book- 
maker. I believe  in  that  conscious  cerebration  which  is  not 
plagiarism,  which  admits  an  even  freer  use  of  the  work  of 
others,  but  involves  due  acknowledgment  of  the  source  of  one’s 
inspiration!” 

“But  Shakespeare  did  not  give  credit  to  others;  was  he 
not  a plagiarist?” 

“We  have  but  to  remember  how  little  we  know  about 
Shakespeare  biographically,  to  realize  how  impersonal  he  was  as 
a writer.  How  easy  to  conceive  that  the  sense  of  his  person- 
ality was  lost  in  the  work  of  his  genius.  Like  Shakespeare  the 
actor,  Shakespeare  the  writer  seemed  to  sink  his  own  person- 
ality in  his  creations.  One  may  easily  believe  that  Shakespeare 
so  far  forgot  the  very  question  of  authorship  (as  being  a matter 
of  any  interest  or  importance)  that  he  felt  no  need  either  to 
claim  or  disclaim  originality.  Shakespeare  did  not  seem  even  to 
realize  that  his  work  was  immortal.” 

“If  he  were  writing  to-day,”  said  his  friend,  “he  would 
be  able  better  to  realize  his  own  genius.” 

“And  would  have  no  need  to  plagiarize,”  answered  the 
book-maker. 


OPINIONS  OF  CRITICS. 


“A  truly  inspired  work.” 

“It  is  surprisingly  graceful,  metaphysical  and  dramatic. 
It  is  unique  in  literature.” 

“In  an  entertaining  and  true  picture  are  shown  the  whims 
of  Fashion,  and  the  foolishness  of  certain  customs  and  costumes. 
The  evolution  of  the  modern  woman  is  well  told;  woman’s  ‘right 
to  suffer’  is  vividly  and  exquisitely  drawn.  This  can  be  well 
said  of  Marvel  Kayve:  he  is  continually  interesting.” 

772  Walnut  Street, 

Chicago,  November  15,  1895. 

I have  just  read  “Vashti;  a Romance  of  the  Wheel,” 
and  with  great  interest.  This  work  is  written  with  the  pen  of 
a poet  and  the  logic  of  a philosopher.  The  picture  of  human 
weakness  and  strength,  meanness  and  nobility,  is  painted  by 
a master  brain  and  hand. 

It  is  profound  in  its  analysis  of  mental  habits  and  conven- 
tional ethics  common  to  society. 

The  thread  of  truth  pervading,  and  on  which  it  is  built,  is 
of  the  eternal  ethics.  Its  exalted  ideal  of  man  and  woman  and 
of  their  ndatifins,  must  make  it  a potent  agency  for  uplifting 
all  who  ar(‘  capabh^  of  as])i ration. 

It  is  a grand  production,  and  must  have  a great  sale.  I 
hope  it  may  be  r(*ad  by  t(‘ns  of  thousands. 

Yours  sinc(‘r(‘ly, 

Lucinda  R.  Chandler. 


